Naught but a Humble Pirate
by Nytd
Summary: The early adventures of a young Hector Barbossa. About the 13 yr old boy who leaves home for the open sea, and the people and the events that shape his future as he becomes a ruthless and notorious pirate.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Standard –I own nothing and the Code of the Brethren compels me to return everything I have borrowed. (eventually)

**Introduction**

The year 1662 bore witness to a number of notable events throughout Europe and the expanding borders of the New World.

Christopher Wren, the great English architect saw his Sheldonian theatre in Oxford completed, and the natural philosopher, Robert Boyle enunciated his law of gas behavior and would become known as one of the fathers of modern chemistry.

This year saw the birth of Mary II who would eventually rule England with her husband William III, and the deaths of the mathematician Blaise Pascal, and Archduke Leopold Wilhelm of Austria. The great Master, Rembrandt van Rijn was still painting, although it was late in his career.

France was under the rule of Louis the XIV, known as "The Sun King," and in Spain Philip IV sat on the throne. In Rome, Leopold I was Holy Roman Emperor, and Alexander VII was the presiding pope. In England, Oliver Cromwell was now dead and Charles II had been reinstated as king.

Charles II was in part responsible for the foundation of the Royal Society that year, along with other notable men of science such as the previously mentioned Robert Boyle, and Robert Cooke.

One of the most significant things Charles II accomplished, especially for the purposes of this story, was to have a marriage arranged to the Princess Catherine of Braganza, daughter of the king of Portugal. His marriage to Catherine is not of central importance here, but the repercussions of her arrival in England would eventually be felt throughout Great Britain and the farthest reaches of her empire. It is said that Catherine brought with her the custom of drinking tea and introduced it to England for the first time. Also arriving with Catherine were the components of her substantial dowry including 300,000 pounds and the gifts of the cities of Mumbai (Bombay) and Tangiers.

It was by these acquisitions that the East India Trading Company would be able to establish its permanent base in India and therefore greatly broaden its assets, allowing it to amass a great deal of power and influence in both the old world and the new for decades to come.

Curiously, in that same year, another person of Portuguese descent, (although of considerably meaner lineage than Princess Catherine) decided also to emigrate from his home in Lisbon, and seek his fortune elsewhere.

Wishing to leave behind a life of poverty in exchange for one full of danger and adventure, the young Mateus managed to secure himself a position on board a ship called the _San Pedro_ under command of Manuel Pardal Rivero, a pirate of some small notoriety.

Mateus sailed with Rivero for several years, becoming a skilled seaman and amassing a small amount of personal wealth. Eventually tiring of the hard life at sea, Mateus decided after a few years that he had enough money to start anew, and left the _San Pedro_ along with an Irishman he'd befriended his last voyage. Together they headed for Ireland, paying for passage to Fowry on the southern coast of Cornwall in England.

The two men, knowing full well the dangers of encountering pirates that frequented the waters around Land's End, opted to follow The Saints' Way overland to Padstow. Here they parted company, the one continuing for Ireland, and Mateus opting to stay in some of the most beautiful country he had ever encountered in his life.

Using his small fortune, Mateus set himself up comfortably in a home with rolling fields, an orchard and a view of the sea. He enjoyed the quiet life for a time, and eventually took a wife, the fair Beryan, daughter of a poor local fisherman who was happy to see her wed to someone who could provide a better life for her.

Alas, the fisherman's hopes were short-lived, for although it was not long before Beryan was with child, it was also not long before Mateus' small fortune began to dwindle. He was forced to sell off some of his land, keeping the small orchard and a few acres for himself and his pregnant wife.

As Beryan grew larger, so did Mateus' fears that his child would be born into poverty like he himself had been. With no skills other than those he had learned on a ship, Mateus made the difficult decision of leaving his wife to fend for herself for a short time so that he might be able to earn enough to support his growing family. He bid an emotional good-bye to his bride and made his way to Penwith (Penzance) to see about finding a berth, eventually ending up on a ship bound for Spain.

As fate would have it, Mateus had heard of a venture being undertaken by his former captain, Manuel Rivero, Portuguese pirate now turned privateer. Spain was being plagued by pirates in the New World, and by none more than the infamous Captain Henry Morgan. Morgan's plundering of Portobello had enraged Spain, who "sanctioned the governors of its colonies in the procurement of privateers and disbursement of letters of marque."1

Mateus was welcomed enthusiastically by Rivero, and signed on to sail to the Caribbean to hunt pirates. The voyage unfortunately would be the death of both men. Rivero was eventually killed by Morgan himself, and it was thought that Mateus may have suffered the same fate, although it was never confirmed.

Either way, Beryan never saw her husband again and when the warmer summer months arrived, she gave birth to a boy child, alone at the small homestead in Padstow. Left without a husband to support her, Beryan was forced to sell more land, leaving only the house and small orchard for her and her son. She made ends meet as best she could as a seamstress for a few years, and when her young son was old enough, he earned a little money helping the local fishermen.

It was a hard life for them both, but Beryan did whatever she could to make life a little better for her son. She cooked and cleaned for an aged priest who lived in the village, and in return for her kindness, the priest taught the boy reading, writing, sums and a little Latin. Although the boy was bright and enjoyed learning whatever he could from the old man, his favorite times were spent running through the orchard hunting rabbit for dinner, or sitting amongst the fishermen of the village as they repaired their nets and told stories of their days at sea.

It was not many years before the boy started to ask his mother questions about his father, and not many more before her offhand answers were not enough. Eventually, Beryan had to face the fact that like it or not, her son deserved the truth.

Her explanation that Mateus had left them to seek his fortune again at sea confused and angered the young boy at first. He wanted to believe that his father had indeed meant to return home to care for him and his mother, but it was difficult not to buy into the notion that Mateus had deserted them so that he might find adventure and glory.

Was the man a deserting coward, or a devoted husband who braved the dangers of the sea to try to make a better life for his new family? Beryan's son told himself that when he was old enough he'd go and seek his father and find out the truth.

Just what sort of man was Mateus Eduardo Santos Barbossa?

--

**Chapter One**

**--**

"Hector!"

"Hector where 'ave ye gotten to now?" Beryan climbed the hill into the orchard and shouted in mild exasperation again for her twelve-year-old son. "Hector!"

A small noise caused her to look overhead to find the boy scurrying down the apple tree he'd been perched in, staring at the ocean off in the distance. Beryan shook her head but couldn't help smiling as she scolded the boy. "Did ye get the conies for dinner?"

Hector jumped the last few feet to the ground and caught up the pair of rabbits he'd killed earlier to present to his mother.

Beryan nodded. "Aye, well they won't be quick to cook themselves if ye don't bring them home to the pot, now will they?"

Hector smiled charmingly at his mother, knowing it would soften her. "Nay, Mother, leastwise not this pair," he said wryly, reaching for the gun where he'd leaned it against the base of the tree.

Beryan smiled more brightly and then frowned a little. "Were ye watching the ships in the distance again?" she asked, knowing full well what Hector would say.

The boy slung the rifle across his shoulder, nodding as he walked past his mother to descend the hill. He said nothing else, knowing already how this conversation would play out. They'd had it enough times already.

Beryan sighed resignedly and followed her son down the hill in silence. She too knew the way the conversation would go and opted to let the subject drop for now. Protest as she might, she knew in her heart that it was only a matter of time before she was unable to sway the lad from his course. He'd long been determined to find out what had happened to his father and reckon with the man for deserting his mother if he was still alive.

No matter how much she told him his father must be dead, and that it was no fault of Mateus for not returning as he'd promised, he knew her too well. She might be able to hide the shred of doubt she possessed from herself, but not from Hector.

"Besides, I want to know what happened even if he be yet dead," the boy would say. It was an argument she had no good answer for, and usually it would only be her tears beginning to well up that would cause the look of steely gray-blue determination to soften in her son's expression. At these moments he would say nothing and reach for her hand, or perhaps smile a little and say "someday". Then he'd wink at her, and she'd laugh, letting him think he'd disarmed her and that she'd stop worrying about it for the moment.

It was a lie they played out more and more frequently now that his thirteenth birthday was nigh. Each time he said "someday," all she heard now was "soon."

Beryan followed her son toward the small house, noting with pride and with dread that he almost seemed taller to her this evening then when she'd last seen him this morning. He'd probably be like his father, six feet or slightly better, and even if he wasn't the handsomest boy in the village, he was at least one of the healthiest. She'd done her best to see to that.

Hector set about skinning the rabbits for his mother as she began peeling a handful of apples and slicing them across the table from him. They worked in silence for a few moments, but Beryan smiled to herself as she waited for the boy to comment on what she was doing. It was another little game they played.

Hector pretended as if what she was doing held little interest for him, and adopting a detached air, glance at her work. "Cutting apples, are ye?"

Beryan stayed focused on the firm green beauty she was peeling. "Aye."

"I see." He continued with the rabbit in his hands for a few moments and glanced in a disinterested way at her work. "What are ye using the apples fer, Mother?"

"Pie," was all she would say, now a little smile wending its way across her lips.

"I see," he said, "so apple pie it is, is it?"

"Aye," was her reply, along with a grin. She started to pile the slices of apple in the pastry on the table.

Hector waited until he had started on the entrails of the rabbit. "How long might it be before the pie be ready?" he asked casually.

"Six hours," Beryan replied firmly.

"Six hours!" Hector firmly stuck the knife in the center of the rabbit and clutched at his heart. "Six hours!" he repeated with mock drama.

"Aye." Beryan couldn't say it without laughing.

"But, why so long?" he asked, glancing longingly at the pastry she was working with.

"This be a special birthday pie, and ye cannot rush such a dish," Beryan replied knowingly.

Hector returned deflated to his work, glancing periodically at his mother, waiting for her to tell him the pie would really be ready in an hour or so. She caught him looking and raised an eyebrow in question at him. He shrugged and returned to his work, waiting and waiting for her to say something. Finally he looked up when he realized she was watching him expectantly, completed pie sitting on the table in front of her.

"Are ye going to put the pie in the oven, woman, or do ye expect it to bake itself?" he asked, laughing.

"Nay, leastwise not this one," she said with a wink, putting the pie in to bake while Hector made exaggerated gestures of relief across the kitchen.

It was a lovely meal of stew and bread that his mother made for the two of them and Father Connor to celebrate Hector's thirteenth birthday. It was all he could do not to burn his mouth on the first slice of pie his mother handed him. It had cooled plenty by the time he put away his third piece, reluctantly admitting that even the stomach of a growing teenager couldn't fit another bite. Even old Father Connor, who normally picked like a bird managed a second piece. Nobody made apple pie the way Beryan did.

Stuffed to the gills, Hector normally would have slept until dawn when he would be expected on the docks, but tonight he anxiously anticipated the moment when Father Connor would take his leave. He wanted to get the conversation ahead over with.

Although it seemed that the gregarious Padre would never say goodnight, he eventually did, blessing the fine meal, the house and its occupants as he left. Beryan sat down and eyed the piles of dishes as Hector sat across from her, wondering how to even begin.

It was his mother's voice that broke the silence. "So, when's it to be, a week?" she asked quietly.

She knew.

Hector wasn't sure whether he felt more relief or guilt at that moment. He continued to stare at the table. "Three days."

Beryan's eyes widened even as the tears began tracing their way down her cheeks. "Three days?" she gasped in a barely audible voice.

"Aye," he replied in the same hushed voice. He dared not look at her. She'd never think him old enough to go if she saw the tears in his own eyes threatening to brim over.

"Could ye not wait a little longer?" she asked, knowing that he couldn't.

"Mother…"

She knew argument would be useless, but her maternal instincts reflexively opened her mouth. "Hector, you really don't have to do this…"

"Nay, I do, Mother," he replied as steadily as he could. "There's naught for me here."

He saw the look of pain in his mother's eyes and was kneeling at her side with her hand in his in an instant. "I….I did not mean that…"he started.

Beryan nodded, knowing that he didn't mean exactly what he had said. She knew he loved her.

He held her hand and continued softly. "It's just that he left you nothin'" he said, "he left me nothin'…nobbut a name," he said, trailing off.

"Aye, and Barbossa be a right fine name too, Hector," Beryan said, gripping his hand tightly.

"That's what I need to find out."

Three days later, after a tearful goodbye from his mother, Hector had taken a small satchel of his belongings and wound his way steadily down the path that led to the Padstow docks. There the small crew of the caravel he'd be leaving on looked as if they were finished offloading the cargo they were trading, and were in the process of re-stocking supplies and the cargo they were taking with them to Bristol.

Mr. Bretton, the merchant who owned the vessel spotted him and called out. "Boy! Get yer arse down 'ere and help wit 't last of this shit!" He indicated the pile of barrels on the docks.

"Aye." Hector dropped his satchel and struggled to lift one of the small kegs onto his shoulder. He nearly dropped it again as Bretton grabbed him by the ear.

"That'd be 'aye, _Sir_, ' Mr. Barbossa," Bretton growled into the lad's face. "If yer going to be a proper sailor, ye'd best be learnin' proper dis'plin startin' righ' now." He tore his hand away from Hector's ear.

Hector winced and nodded briefly. "Aye, Sir," he replied, and then turned to carry the barrel up the gangplank past the handful of crew that obviously found the encounter amusing. One of them, a stout, weathered-looking man with dark hair and a short beard motioned to the boy. His accent took Hector by surprise. "Mae, but you are slow!"

Hector looked up sharply from under the barrel on his shoulder, but found the man grinning at him.

"Here. Down here. I show you where that goes," the man said, beckoning Hector to follow him into the small ship's hold. Hector followed, struggling not to drop the barrel, which was getting heavier by the moment.

"There." The bearded man pointed to a stack of barrels at one end of the already crowded hold. He stood by with his arms folded and watched for several moments as Hector labored to get the barrel up on the stack, smiling to himself as the boy panted and heaved, and finally was able to situate the keg in place. Hector, somewhat breathless, turned to the man as he spoke again.

"Excelente. Very good. Now, get up top. You saw there are more barrels, yes?" He was grinning again.

"Aye, that I did, sir," Hector replied, heading for the stairs. He was stopped by one of the man's large callused hands on his arm, gripping him firmly. It was, however a kind expression the man wore when Hector looked at him.

"You learn quick enough, but it is not …ah, how do you say…needed? Yes, it is not needed that you call me 'sir'."

"Necessary?" Hector offered helpfully.

"Yes, that either. Not necessary." The man released his arm and clapped Hector on the shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. "Cezar Tavares da Silva a seu sevico." He offered his hand to Hector. "You may call me Cezar."

Hector shook the man's outstretched hand. "Hector Barbossa."

The man's eyebrows shot up as he continued to grip the boy's hand. "Ah, Compatriota!"

Hector looked questioningly at Cezar.

"Barbossa is Portuguese, no?"

"Aye, well, me father was Portuguese. Me mother be a native of Padstow all her years," Hector replied, at last freeing his hand from the man's firm grip.

"We will Portuguese sailors together then, Hector! Yes?" Cezar laughed aloud.

"Aye." Hector found himself smiling back.

"Say 'sim'," Cezar replied, offering the Portuguese affirmative.

"Sim."

"Good, but there are more barrels to load, yes?" Silva asked with a wink.

"Sim," the boy replied.

"They are not going to load themselves, I fear," Cezar said, turning to head up the stairs.

"Nay, leastwise not that bunch," Hector returned, and he followed the older man back to where the remaining barrels sat on the dock.

--

**A/N:** The idea for the beginning of this story comes from an interview with Geoffrey Rush, who said that he imagined Hector Barbossa as being from a poor family and running away from home at age 13. Mateus Eduardo Santos Barbossa is a completely fictional character. I picture a young John Rhys-Davies as Cezar, recalling him as Vasco Rodrigues in Shogun.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks to Coffeemuse and Barbossa's Monkey for their encouragement to continue! My apologies ahead of time for mutilating anything said in Portuguese.

**Chapter Two**

An hour later, Hector found himself on board the caravel next to Cezar, watching the Cornwall coast pass by at the starboard. The rest of the crew were busy tying off the sails as they unfurled in succession on the lateen-rigged cargo ship.

"How long will it take us?" Hector asked, leaning over the side a bit to watch the speed of the water rushing by.

"If the wind stays with us," Silva replied, glancing at the clear sky overhead, "a day and a half."

They spent the remainder of the morning and most of the afternoon with Cezar explaining the parts of the ship and the way she was trimmed to Hector, who soaked up the information like a sponge. Used to helping only on small fishing vessels in Padstow, the boy was fascinated by the intricacies of the larger ship.

"It be a bit complicated," Hector complained, after confusing the names of the sails again.

"It is just new to you," Cezar replied kindly. "It will not take long for you to understand this like…how do you say…the palm of your hand? Yes?"

Hector grinned. "Back. The back of yer hand."

A wide smile broke out behind the black beard. Cezar looked over his shoulder as he heard a sharp whistle behind him. "Ah, good. Time to eat!"

The man and boy returned to the deck to eat their rations of bread, cheese and ale. Hector found himself already longing for his mother's cooking as they ate their dinner.

"So," Silva began, mouth full of food as he spoke, "why is it that you have decided to go to Bristol?"

Hector finished chewing before he replied. "I want to find a berth on a ship bound for the Caribbean."

Cezar raised an eyebrow. "Caribe? You like the warmer weather, yes?"

"I've no way of knowin'," Hector replied, "I've not been before."

Cezar pursed his lips in thought for a moment. "So then, why the Caribbean? It's a long voyage."

"How long?" Hector asked, taking a bite of his dinner as he avoided Silva's question.

"Five weeks, maybe six depending on the ship," Cezar replied. He smiled wryly. "If you are lucky, of course."

"And if I be unlucky?" Hector asked between mouthfuls.

The older man merely smiled and shrugged, then turned to watch the sunset for a bit. After a moment or two he spoke again. "So, it is to be a secret then, the reason for your jornada?"

Hector shook his head. "I go to seek me father," he replied, not volunteering more.

Cezar stroked his beard for a moment and looked thoughtful. "So, your father was a marinheiro? A sailor?"

"Aye," the boy replied quietly. They sat together in silence, listening to the waves and the voices of the other crewmen laughing at a joke one of them had been telling across the deck.

Cezar tried to break the ice again. "Your father, he left how long ago?"

"Thirteen years," came the soft answer from where the failing light still fell across their section of deck.

"I see. How old are you, Hector?" The older man tried to ask it casually so that it would not sound like he was interrogating the boy.

"Thirteen," was the only answer.

Cezar stroked his beard thoughtfully again. "Ah, so this is why you did not learn the language of your father."

He tossed his empty plate aside and scooted a little closer to where Hector sat. "Well, then, Barbossa, I shall instruct you, yes?"

The boy's expression brightened and he sat up more attentively while he ate.

"Very well," Silva began. "The language is very beautiful, but a little, em…confusing at first."

He rubbed his hands together briskly. "So," he said, ending with a sharp clap for emphasis, "we will start with some of the most important words, sim?"

"Sim," Hector nodded in agreement and took a bite of cheese.

"Good, em, let us start then with tits," Cezar proclaimed.

Hector promptly inhaled the cheese he'd been chewing and dropped his plate, clutching at his throat.

His new mentor began chuckling heartily and finally reached across and slapped the boy soundly between the shoulder blades, causing him to spew forth a glob of cheese onto the deck and to continue to cough spasmodically.

"Here, drink this." Cezar handed over a cup of ale. "My young friend," he said with a laugh, "I wager you are not the first man to become short of breath at the thought of a good pair of tits."

Red-face from choking and embarrassment, Hector tried to swallow some of the ale and ended up spewing it out his nose at Cezar's comment. He continued to sputter and gag while his new friend laughed heartily at his expense.

The pair spent the rest of the evening companionably exchanging swears, curse words and as many ways as each could think of for expressing the act of fornication, eventually recruiting the rest of the crew to contribute their own colorful euphemisms.

Finally, Cezar could see that the day's work and a little too much ale were taking its toll on his young companion. He nudged the boy in the ribs. "Time to turn in," he said, indicating that some of the others were doing likewise. "Long day tomorrow."

The teenager spent most of his first night aboard a ship restless despite his fatigue. He found himself up and on deck well before dawn, watching as the horizon began to pale, and then to lighten, and then as the sun rose over the silhouette of land to starboard. The wind was brisk, and Hector was leaning on the rail listening to the intermittent snap of the sails, and the gulls flying overhead hoping they might be a fishing vessel that would leave a flotsam of fish parts. He looked up when he sensed Cezar's approach.

"Bom dia," he said jovially, "good morning." He handed Hector another ration of bread and cheese, and leaned against the rail as he began to eat his own.

"Thankee," the boy replied, suddenly realizing that he was in fact hungry.

Both looked up as Mr. Bretton approached them. "We've made good time, Mr. Silva," he began. "I want yeh t' be ready fer unloadin in an hour."

Cezar and Hector both nodded. "Aye, sir."

The older man tugged at the boy's sleeve, and Hector looked where he was pointing. "On the other side of that is Bristol. This is your first time, yes?"

"Aye," the lad replied, watching the point of land they were nearing as Cezar stroked his beard thoughtfully.

"I have a contract for you," Silva began, and then hesitated as he saw the boy's look of confusion. "Em, a how do you say…..agreement…em…."

"Ye have a deal fer me," Hector corrected him.

"Ah, sim. Bom. A deal," the man replied, pointing at Hector, " and the deal is that if you help unload the ship as fast as we can, Bretton will give me a little bonus to spend in Bristol."

"I see, and what be the part that makes it a deal fer me?" Hector asked, one eyebrow raised, unknowing it was the very expression his father would have adopted.

"We split it while we look for a ship bound for the Caribe," Cezar said, winking as he spoke.

"Never mind that look," he continued, noting the puzzled frown on the boy's face, "I need work after this trip too, so we'll find something faster with both of us looking, yes?" He smiled as he noted the look of relief that came over Hector's face.

The bustling port of Bristol was unlike anything Hector had seen in his thirteen years. As the ship began furling sail and entered the harbor, he stood at the rail watching the myriad of vessels entering and leaving port. At only 50 tons, the caravel was the largest ship Hector had ever seen, if you didn't count the ones he'd seen from treetop in the distance back home. His jaw dropped open in awe as they sailed past a great four-mast carrack that was heading out to sea. _Santa Catarina _was painted in large gold letters across her stern.

"She is beautiful, yes?" Cezar had joined him at the rail to admire the great sailing vessel. " I wager she is bound for the Orient."

"She be a Spanish ship, to judge by her name," Hector offered, eyes still riveted to the oceans of sail she carried.

"Originally, but she flies the flag of England now, see?" Cezar pointed to the mast tops. "Your British king prefers not to rename the Spanish vessels he acquires."

Hector glanced at Silva for a moment and then back to the carrack. "Why?"

Cezar leaned closer. "Salt in a wound, yes?"

The boy understood. There was currently no love lost between England and Spain as both competed for dominance of the seas and of trade, especially in the New World. A captured Spanish ship that still bore her name but flew under the flag of new ownership would infuriate the Spaniards.

Cezar clapped Hector on the shoulder. "Come my friend," he said brightly, pointing to the docks they were nearing. "We are going to unload this tub in record time today, sim?"

"Sim!" Hector agreed enthusiastically, thinking about the bonus Bretton might give them if they were quick.

Initially offloading was a game, with each of them running back up the gangplank to grab another load, but it didn't take long before both of them were shirtless, dirty and sweating, along with the rest of the crew.

Hours later, Hector stood on the dock, satchel at his feet and shirt draped over one sweaty shoulder while he watched Mr. Bretton hand over the additional coins to Cezar. The unloading had gone fast, indeed. The two men shook hands and parted company, and Cezar motioned for Hector to come along.

Hector quickly shrugged into his shirt and slung his satchel over the shoulder his shirt had occupied. He scurried to catch up to the older man who was singing to himself as he picked his way through the crews and merchants that were loading and unloading on the great docks. Still singing, he eyed Hector and flipped a bright coin his way, and then laughed as he saw the look of surprise on the boy's face. "That is from Bretton, my young friend. He was very pleased that offloading was so fast."

Hector stared at the coin. He knew it wasn't much compared to what the others had earned, but it was more money than he'd possessed all at once in thirteen years. He slipped the coin very carefully into a pocket for safekeeping and trotted to catch up to Cezar, who had gotten a bit ahead of him.

They walked through the crowds together, making their way away from the harbor.

When Hector realized they were heading into town, he tugged at Cezar's sleeve. "Don't we need to find a ship?" he asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the harbor they were leaving.

"Patience!" A large smile broke out behind the black beard. "You just set foot on land, boy!"

"I …" Hector started to protest, but Cezar cut him off.

"At least let us search on a full stomach, yes?" He smacked the boy in the gut playfully and motioned that they should head to the right. "If we are fortunate and find a berth soon, this might be some of the last decent food you see for a month and a half." He led Hector into a large market where vendors were selling food, and fruit and goods from half way around the world.

Hector had all he could do not to let his mouth hang open as he watched people in all manner of dress hawking their wares. His attention was caught by the noise from cages of exotic-looking birds, and he leaned closer to look at a pair of fancy doves when Cezar nudged his arm. He looked down at the leathery orange ball Silva had deposited in his hand and shot the man a questioning glance.

"Eat it," Cezar said, motioning encouragement.

Hector sniffed it and tentatively took a small bite of the dimply surface. He nearly spit the foul bitter stuff out, but determined that if Cezar could stomach this fruit, so could he. He took another small bite, and chewed endlessly, trying to gag down the horrid stuff.

Cezar, lost in his own thoughts, happened to glance over at where Hector was struggling with his orange. He laughed aloud. "No, no my friend! Peel the outside off, like this…" he offered up the peeled fruit he held in his hand, and took the unpeeled one from Hector. "Now you try it."

Hector gave him a dubious look, and then took a small bite from the fruit Cezar had peeled.

It was wonderful.

"That is better than the outside, yes?" Cezar looked expectantly at Hector when he didn't get an answer. "Yes?" After still not receiving an answer, he followed where the boy's gaze had fallen on a pretty young woman selling flowers a few feet away. He leaned over and whispered in Hector's ear. "I wager she would be even better peeled too," he said, miming sliding a dress off when the boy turned. He laughed out loud as Hector turned red.

"You are as bright as that fruit, Barbossa!" Cezar continued to laugh. "Perhaps when you are a bit older, lad!" He slapped the boy on the back and motioned for him to follow into the tavern across the street.

Hector headed for an unoccupied table in the bar when Cezar touched his arm. "Not there….that one." He indicated a table off to one side, and made his way to the bar.

Hector went to the table the man had assigned and sat, stowing his satchel underneath at his feet. He did his best to look around the room without staring, but it was difficult. There were men dressed in a manner he had never seen, and he heard accents nearby that he could not place. He tried to make out a conversation nearby when he recognized a few words of Portuguese that Cezar had taught him. It wasn't really enough to understand much, but Hector was concentrating on the speaker when a woman's voice distracted him.

"You lost, darlin'?"

He looked up at the woman standing in front of him, his eyes starting at the cascades of auburn hair and traveling over the painted lips, past her ample bosom that threatened to overflow her dress to the hands she had placed on the table.

"You deaf?" she asked, giving him a crooked smile.

"No," was all he managed to reply.

She moved around the table and sat in the chair next to him. "Are y' alone?"

Hector looked around quickly for Cezar. "N-no," he stammered, "I be travellin' with a friend." He indicated where Silva was standing and talking to a man at the bar.

The woman glanced at where he pointed and then turned a predatory gaze back at Hector. "So are y' just gettin' in ta port then?"

"Yes, from Padstow," Hector replied.

"Padstow? Y' don't say." She scooted her chair a little closer as if she found Padstow to be the most interesting place she'd ever heard of. She smiled warmly and leaned closer. "So, y' must have offloaded and just been paid," she said casually.

"Um, well…." Hector began, not wanting to admit that his payment had really been passage on the ship.

The woman sat back a little. "Do y' have money or don't ya?" she asked with a little pout.

Hector frowned a bit. "Aye," he started and was cut off by Cezar's voice.

"Yes, and in his pocket it will stay," he said firmly. He indicated that the woman should vacate the chair she had pulled very close to where the teenager sat. She shot Cezar a dirty look and then departed.

Cezar place a mug in front of Hector and sat in the vacated chair. "Ah, Barbossa. I need three eyes to keep watch over you," he said with a sigh.

"What?" Hector asked a little indignantly.

"If that woman had been any closer she would have been in your trousers with you," Cezar replied, taking a great swig from his mug, and then seeing the puzzled look on the boy's face, explained. "She was going to pick your pocket, Hector. She's a thief."

Hector's eyes widened. "A thief? A woman?" His only experience had been with the women of the village who were a hard-working, God-fearing group. It never occurred to him that a woman might be trying to steal from him.

"Yes," Cezar replied with a sigh, after taking another draught, "thieves, all of them. Either your money or your heart."

Hector rolled his eyes and took a swig from his own mug.

The rest of the evening would have been uneventful as the two companions ate dinner in their corner, and Cezar told Hector about the conversation he'd had with the man at the bar about where they might look for a ship bound for the Caribbean, if it were not for the fact that the pickpocket made another appearance. Cezar suddenly broke off from what he'd been saying and leaned closer to whisper. "Over my right shoulder, lad. You see? Your lady friend is back at work."

Hector started to lean back to see, when Cezar touched his arm and barely shook his head. "Not so obvious." He shifted in his chair just a little so Hector could see across the tavern without it being so apparent.

What Hector saw was the woman sitting in the lap of a man in a group of men who had apparently been drinking quite heavily. She had one hand toying with the man's hair, but he couldn't see where her other hand had gotten to.

"He's about to be robbed," Cezar whispered without looking back again.

Hector's eyes went to Cezar's face and then back to the scene across the room. From where he sat it was difficult to see clearly, but now that he knew what she was up to he recognized when the woman tucked a small object into the folds of her dress with her free hand. It was probably the man's purse. He shook his head and reminded himself to be much more cautious in the future.

It was unfortunate for the cutpurse that at that moment her victim's drinking companions informed him loudly that it was his turn to buy the next round. He scooted her off his lap and stood up unsteadily to call for the barkeep, reaching for his now empty pocket. Drunk or not, it only took him a moment to realize where his missing purse had gotten to.

"You bloody thieving wench!" he cried, making an off-balance grab for the woman who was trying to slip between the next two tables. His inebriated momentum carried him much too far and he crashed heavily into the lap of a large man with a shaved head and great mustache. The bald man roared in indignation, and stood up, dropping the first on the floor. It was only a moment before punches were being exchanged between the occupants of the two tables, and then another before the fights started to sweep across the room like a wave.

Hector's eyes went wide as the first chair flew by, and then he ducked the full mug of ale that sailed past his head and exploded all over the wall.

"Time to go," Cezar said quickly. He put a hand out to stop Hector from heading to the door. "You would never make it through that without being beat to a pulp," Silva said. "This way." He indicated where he'd opened the window they'd been sitting next to, and followed after the boy had scramble through out into the street.

Outside, Hector slung his satchel over his shoulder as he trotted along behind Cezar for several blocks. Finally the older man stopped for them to catch their breath. He looked up from where he was leaning with his hands on his thighs and grinned. "You get an education tonight, eh Barbossa?"

Hector stood panting with his hands on his hips, and nodded breathlessly.

"You see why you should never sit at the center of the room, yes?" Cezar continued. "Always in a room full of men who are drinking you sit where you can see who comes in and who leaves. Keep to yourself, and always keep a way out."

It was advice Hector would remember for the rest of his life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

The ship bore the name of _Tempest_, and she was a brig out of Bristol itself with a gleaming hull and fine lines. Recently repainted and refitted with square rigging aft, she was bound for Jamaica and would be able to take two additional crewmembers to those she had already acquired.

Her captain was a man named Frederick Wallace, and he'd made the journey successfully a half-dozen times or more. He was in the process of making himself a tidy fortune as a supplier of hard-to-obtain goods to the wealthier populace of Port Royal, as well as from the large shipments of sugar, coffee, and cotton that he would bring back to Bristol.

After a somewhat lengthy conversation with Cezar, Mr. Murdock, the ship's quartermaster, agreed at last to sign both himself and the boy. Initially reluctant to take an inexperienced boy on the arduous trip, Murdock was convinced by Cezar's arguments that Hector was a quick study and a hard worker.

Hector stood a little behind Cezar as the older man signed his name to the ship's book. Murdock handed the quill to the boy next, "Yeh can make yer mark here," he said, indicating the spot on the page under Cezar's name.

Hector earned a look of surprise and then a brief nod of approval from the quartermaster when he stepped up and signed his full name with a bit of a flourish.

"We leave at noontide tomorrow," the quartermaster reported, "but there's still a good bit of work to be done." He indicated a figure on the deck of the _Tempest_. "The bo' sun's mate will set yeh a task. Name's Smith." He turned and walked briskly away to speak with Captain Wallace.

Setting them a task was an understatement. The mate's last minute to-do list was extensive, and Hector found himself sore and exhausted before the ship had even weighed anchor. He was tough and wiry from years of helping to repair and haul in fishing nets back home, but by the end of the day he had rope burns across both palms, and could barely stand up straight from all the heavy lifting he'd done. By dinner it was all he could do to lower himself into a sitting position on a barrel to eat his meal.

Cezar appeared and slapped him on the back, sitting down next to him and earning a dirty look from the exhausted boy. "Here, let me see those," he said, indicating Hector's torn hands.

Hector obliged and turned his palms up for Cezar to inspect. The older man let out a low whistle. "Next time I say 'let go', you let go of the rope quicker, yes?"

"Aye, I'll not be makin' that mistake again," Hector agreed, eyeing the stinging abrasions. He watched as Silva unwrapped something he carried.

"Here, this will help," Cezar said, and he took the boy's left hand in his and smeared something greasy over the wound.

Hector sucked in his breath through his teeth, but allowed Cezar to finish what he was doing. "What manner of medication be that?" he asked, sniffing it tentatively as Cezar applied the same to his other palm.

"Butter." The familiar smile appeared behind the beard. "It is good for many such things on a ship," he said, then his smile faded a little, "at least before it goes rancid."

"Rancid?" Hector asked, now looking at the grease applied to his palms. He had to admit they didn't sting quite so much now.

"Yes," Cezar continued. "There will be no butter after the first week, maybe two. There will be no fresh meat after that either. By the end of our trip the water will be nearly undrinkable, the ale sour, the cheese moldy and the bread will be crawling with worms."

Hector's laughter rang out for a moment while he thought his friend was pulling his leg. It faded and then died out altogether as he noted that Cezar was not laughing. He swallowed hard. "Worms ye say?"

"Yes. Worms. Lots of tiny little worms."

"Well, what do we eat if the biscuit be riddled with worms and the meat and cheese are bad?" Hector asked, not really sure if he wanted to know the answer at this point.

Cezar smiled again and avoided the answer. "Look at the bright side, Barbossa. We will be in the Caribbean where it will be much warmer than this dismal English city. We will have pockets full of coin and lungs full of good salt air. Adventure will be ours, my young friend!"

Hector returned the smile, and had to admit, despite Cezar's information about the less than gourmet cuisine he was about to experience on board the ship, that he was still excited about the prospect of crossing the Atlantic.

It was two weeks into the trip when the first trouble arose for the son of Mateus Barbossa. Thus far on the trip, he had found the bo'sun and the mate to be gruff but kind enough men that dealt firmly yet fairly with the crew. The captain didn't have much to do with Hector, but would often nod in brief acknowledgement as they passed on deck.

As for the remainder of the crew, most were simple hard-working sailors that both Cezar and Hector got on with well enough, and several had taken it upon themselves to contribute to the teenager's nautical education. He was learning various knots, anatomy of the ship, and a rudimentary understanding of navigation at sea, and found that he couldn't drink the lessons in fast enough. The first time he was allowed to make the climb to the crow's nest, he thought sailing along the open sea ninety feet above the waves was the greatest adventure he could ever ask for.

Occasionally after the evening meal, the crew would swap stories about journeys they had made at sea, some of the tales obviously being extensively embellished, but it made them no less enjoyable. They told stories of sea creatures and great storms, of exotic lands and beautiful women. By the end of the evening, the storms became more fierce, the women more desirable, and the company more companionable.

It was in the middle of such a tale one evening that the small keg ran dry, and because the trip so far was being made in record time, the quartermaster approved the opening of a second barrel for the men. Murdock pointed at Hector. "Barbossa, run and fetch us a barrel."

"Aye, sir!" Hector sprang nimbly to his feet and sprinted into the hold, anxious to get back to the current tale of a supposed mermaid encounter. He held up the lantern he had snatched, and contemplated the predicament he now had. He could carry the barrel and not be able to see where he was going, or the lamp in one hand and risk the barrel falling if he used only one hand to steady it on his shoulder.

Not wanting to risk losing a keg that the crew were anxiously waiting for, Hector made a quick decision and set the lantern down near the stairs. He crossed the hold to the corner where the small barrels were stacked, feeling along the last few darkened feet to the ropes that secured them. Laughter on deck faded as he made his way deeper into the hold.

He tugged at one corner of rope, concentrating on freeing the nearest barrel, when a voice from behind startled him.

"What ya playin' at there, boy?"

The silhouette of McFadden, one of the few crewmembers that spent little time in the company of others, and one that Cezar had recommended Hector be respectful to but stay clear of, was standing there blocking the faint light from the lantern.

Hector knew instinctively that he didn't like the situation.

"Just gettin' another keg fer the crew, sir," he said politely. He tried to free the barrel again while keeping an eye on McFadden. He didn't like that the man was blocking his exit, and he didn't like that he lurched a step or two closer.

"Yer doin' it all wrong," he growled, indicating the rope Hector was tugging futilely. He grunted at Hector and waived him off, deftly pulling the correct rope, then pointing at the keg that was the boy's target.

Hector nodded his thanks and leaned to grasp the keg, anxious to take it and get back on deck. He had just placed his hands on it when he felt himself suddenly pushed up against the stack of barrels, ribs being crushed between the kegs and McFadden who had shoved him forward. He was off balance from his effort to lean out and get the beer, and found that he couldn't back up with McFadden's bulk wedged against his spine.

"What's yer hurry, boy?" McFadden asked in a low voice. He shoved Hector against the barrels roughly, causing the boy to grunt involuntarily as the air was forced out of his lungs.

Hector was getting angry by this point, and although he hated to admit it, more and more frightened. He made one more effort at being polite. "I need to get this beer up to the crew, sir. They be waitin' for it already."

McFadden snarled back. "Let them wait. Yeh've spent enough time with them." Hector could smell layers of stale sweat and old beer on the man when he leaned in even closer. "I think yeh'll be spending a little time with ol' McFaddy," he sneered, shoving Hector again.

If Hector had thought he was in trouble a moment before, he knew it for sure now. Unable to right himself, unable to breath, he felt a wave of panic rise and pour ice into his gut as McFadden reached around him and tore at his belt. The man was tearing at his trousers when Hector finally managed to twist a little, and rammed his elbow behind him and into his assailant's nose as hard as he could.

A cry like a wounded animal went up behind him, and McFadden's weight was suddenly gone. Hector sprang to one side and spun about all in one move, coming to face the outline of McFadden reeling backward, grasping at his face with both hands. Glad for a brief moment to be free, the boy suddenly realized that he still couldn't get past McFadden who was blocking the narrow aisle to the stairs, and who was now thoroughly infuriated.

McFadden still wailed drunkenly like a banshee, holding his smashed face. "Yeh've broken it! Yeh've broken my nose yeh son of a feckin' whore!" He ripped his hands from his face and staggered forward menacingly. "I'll be up yer arse with me knife instead for this!"

Hector saw the faint glint of the blade in the light that filtered around McFadden and held his breath as he found his back up against the barrels and the drunk rushing forward with a wild cry. He raised his arms to defend himself, and was knocked to the floor as McFadden's full weight crashed into him. He struggled under the fallen man expecting the feel of the knife tearing into his flesh any second.

McFadden didn't move.

The lantern suddenly shone into his darkened corner of the hold, and Hector glanced up from where he was shoving McFadden's considerable but unmoving bulk away. There stood Cezar, lantern in one hand and the other reaching down to him. Hector grasped arms with his friend who helped pull him to his feet.

"Hand me that," Cezar said quietly. When Hector looked where he pointed, he saw the knife protruding from McFadden's still form. When he looked back at Cezar with bewilderment, Silva's only answer was a pantomime of a knife being thrown. Still in shock, Hector didn't move as Cezar stepped past him to retrieve his own knife.

Cezar held the light up and looked at Hector with obvious concern. "You are alright, yes?"

Hector nodded slowly.

"Good." He waited a moment and then turned for the stairs. "Let us go then." He gestured at Hector and then at the stack of kegs. "Fix your clothes and grab that barrel, then. Mae, but you are slow!" He shot a weak grin at Hector who did what he was told.

Cezar continued as he lighted the stairs for Hector. "On deck we are all waiting for you and the beer so that Adams can finish telling us about the mermaid he saw."

Hector stopped and glanced at his friend, still shaken but trying to appear braver than he felt. "Did she have nice tits?" he asked, managing a feeble smile.

Cezar broke into a wider grin behind his beard. "Let us go and find out together, Barbossa." He patted the boy on the back and they headed up the stairs.

Back on deck Hector did his best to appear nonchalant as he handed over the keg to the mate, who promptly tapped it amid a chorus of cheers from the men. He sat down as Adams resumed the tale of the mermaid, but heard little of the description of her ethereal beauty as he was still somewhat shaken. He noticed that Cezar had pulled Murdock to one side, and that the quartermaster nodded gravely several times as Cezar spoke quickly and quietly to him.

Hector found himself relieved that Murdock never looked at him even once during the conversation, nor did he appear to say anything when he discreetly motioned to the bo'sun and his mate to follow himself and Silva into the hold.

Cezar reappeared after a few minutes and flopped down on the deck next to Hector. The story was now getting raunchier and the crew was busy pressing Adams for details. It allowed Cezar to speak to Hector without being overheard.

"You are alright?" he asked, glancing at the boy. He saw Hector nod, but the boy wouldn't meet his gaze. He prodded him in the arm a bit to get him to look up.

"Were you hurt?" he asked, still concerned; noticing the guilt in the boy's eyes even as he shook his head.

"This was not your fault, Barbossa," Cezar said firmly. "None of it." He sighed as he saw the lad wasn't convinced and slid a few inches closer.

"Barbossa," he began gently, "you will meet many men while you are at sea. There are all types. Most are like these," he indicated the jovial group of sailors toasting Adams' story, "but once in a while you will meet men that are less than honorable. Like McFadden."

He looked up at the stars overhead for a moment before continuing. "You must not let this bother you so much. Life on a ship is hard. Sometimes difficult decisions have to be made. You will find out soon enough that death is no stranger to a sailor." He smiled a little as Hector tentatively met his gaze.

"Besides," Cezar continued, " I would much rather it was not you who was visited by death tonight, my friend."

The boy finally began to smile.

Cezar patted him on the knee. "Put it behind you, Barbossa."

They sat together quietly for a few more moments, and then Hector spoke. "Ye threw that knife from across the hold, did ye?"

Cezar glanced over, concerned that the boy was still dwelling on the incident, but was relieved when he saw the lad appeared more relaxed and genuinely curious. "Yes." He drew the now-clean dagger out of his belt and held it up. "My father taught me to handle a knife," he said, admiring the short blade in the moonlight.

"May I see it?" Hector asked.

"Of course." Cezar handed over the dagger.

Hector had never seen such a knife. The tapered steel was inlaid with beautiful gold scrollwork, and the elegant handle had iridescent mother-of-pearl set in the crosspiece.

"I may not have much experience to be speakin' from, but I judge this to be a right fine blade, Cezar. Where is it from?"

Cezar took the dagger that Hector offered back to him and sheathed it at his belt. "It was my father's, originally made in Viseu."

"Is that where ye be from?" Hector asked, apparently intrigued by the thought of hearing something about Cezar.

"Yes. Viseu lies inland, in the north," Cezar said a little distantly. "It is very beautiful there….very beautiful…" he trailed off and stared out over the water.

"So, why did ye leave?" the boy asked.

Cezar glanced at him and gave him a warm smile. "Like you, Barbossa, my father was also a man of the sea….it is in my blood."

"Will ye be returnin' to Viseu after this trip?" Hector asked, curious but slightly apprehensive that his friend's answer might be yes.

Cezar continued to stare out at the darkened ocean. "No," he said quietly. "There is nothing there for me anymore."

Hector raised an eyebrow. "Anymore?" he inquired gently. He sensed something painful in the half-hidden expression on the older man's face.

Cezar said nothing for a few moments, and Hector had the sense not to intrude on his thoughts. After a short time, Cezar heaved a great sigh and turned.

"It was a long time ago, Barbossa," he began, in a slightly strangled voice. "Once, I was married…."

Hectors eyes widened and he unintentionally interrupted. "You were?"

Cezar smiled again. "Yes, to the most beautiful senhora I have ever laid eyes on," he said, waxing sentimental.

"And," he added, surprising Hector again, "I had a son." The smiled he offered this time was tempered by the sorrow in his eyes.

Hector felt compelled to find out more. "Where are they?" he asked, not realizing where Cezar's story was headed.

"They are dead, Barbossa," Silva replied flatly. "A plague….a disease of the blood took them both many years ago while I was away on a voyage." He hesitated, and then smiled sadly again as he stared blankly at a spot somewhere in front of him. "Joaquim, my son…he had just started to walk the last time I saw him….." he trailed off, still staring ahead.

"I am sorry…." Hector started, not really knowing what to say, but feeling that he should say something. He was cut off by a wave of Cezar's hand and a sad smile again accompanied by brightness in the man's eyes. He kept silent for a few moments until Cezar cleared his throat and spoke again.

"Joaquim would have been about your age, Hector," he said.

The boy nodded and looked thoughtful for a minute or two and then spoke quietly. "That'd be the reason that ye've been lookin' after me so well, then, I wager. Ye never had the chance to look after yer son."

Cezar smiled warmly at the boy. "Perhaps," he said gently.

He rose stiffly to his feet, stretching and yawning broadly. "Or perhaps it is just because you so badly need looking after," he said wryly. "Santa Maria! I need a third eye to watch you properly, Barbossa!"

Hector smiled and rose as well. "Aye, that'd likely as not be true."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

**--**

Exhausted from the evening's unpleasant events as he was, Hector slept fitfully for a short time and then grew weary of tossing and turning. He climbed out of his hammock, trying his best not to disturb Cezar, who was snoring loudly from where he was cocooned in a hammock next to him.

Things were quiet at that hour of the night, and Hector nodded to the few men on deck as he went to lean on the rail and watch the moonlight play over the waves that rolled past the _Tempest_. He was lost in thought about the story Cezar had relayed to him earlier, when he heard a number of hushed voices making their way toward him and turned to see who was speaking.

A strange sight met his eyes as he turned around. There were Mr. Murdock and Mr. Smith, along with two other sailors that Hector knew by name, McNeil and Taylor. They were hauling a large burlap sack to the rail not far from where Hector stood.

Murdock nodded at the boy briefly, and then spoke to the others. "Ready?" He got a nod from each of them. "Alright, on three then."

It became apparent to Hector that the large sack was about to be tossed overboard, and he felt a chill creep up his spine as it dawned on him what, or rather who, was in that sack. He'd heard of burials at sea from the fishermen, but didn't expect that he was going to witness one so soon.

"...Three!" Interrupted his thoughts as Murdock finished counting, and the four men heaved together to send the burlap wrapped body overboard with a collective grunt that was followed a couple of seconds later by a splash.

Some small, morbid part of Hector's psyche felt the desire to lean over and watch what happened to the body, but he resisted the urge and turned away. He looked up as Murdock placed a hand on his shoulder briefly as he passed. Smith, Taylor, and McNeil stood at the rail a moment longer.

"Well, that's another for theLocker," Taylor said darkly, "an' good riddance to 'im, I say." The others agreed with silent nods.

Hector frowned. "The locker?" he suddenly found he had asked out loud.

The three men looked over at him. "Aye," Taylor continued. "He belongs to Davy Jones' locker now."

Hector hated to sound stupid in front of the crew and so said nothing, but the confused expression on his face must have belied his ignorance.

Taylor leaned on his elbow against the rail. "Ye've not heard of Davy Jones, young Master Barbossa?"

Hector shook his head.

"Well," Taylor went on, "tha's prob'ly for the best. Hope ye never have the occasion to be making his acquaintance."

"Why?" Hector asked out of ignorance and curiosity.

"Why?" Taylor repeated incredulously. "Why? Because ye'd be dead or dying, that's why."

Taylor leaned closer and dropped his voice to a hushed whisper. "A demon of the sea he be...some say the Devil 'imself. If ye be unlucky enough to snuff it at sea, it's to the depths and the locker fer ye. They say that if ye be left fer dead, that Davy Jones 'isself comes to collect yer soul."

"But," McNeil chimed in with awe in his voice, "he gives you a choice if you're not dead yet."

Hector's eyes were getting wider. "A choice?"

"Aye," said Taylor, shooting McNeil a look for interrupting. "He offers ye a choice of going to the great Abyss or agreeing to serve for one hundred years aboard 'is ship."

His voice was fading to a hoarse whisper, and Hector leaned closer and whispered back. "His ship?"

The other three looked at each other with dread.

"Aye," croaked Taylor, "the _Flyin' Dutchman_." All three sailors crossed themselves at that moment. "A ghost of a ship that appears wherever there be a shipwreck or battle."

Hector was still trying to decide if the three sailors were as convinced of the legend's truth as much as they appeared to be, or if they were taking advantage of his gullibility and inexperience. He looked at Smith, who now added his two cents.

"They say his appearance is enough to scare a man to death in itself," he said.

"Aye," the other two agreed.

"Three rows of teeth..."

"Horns growin' righ' out of 'is head!"

"...and a great forked tail...

"And blue smoke wending it's way out of his nostrils," Smith added to finish.

Hector looked from one man to the next, trying to detect any hint of sarcasm or dishonesty. Although all three look pretty convincingly disturbed, he frowned as he spoke.

_"Ye be tellin' me true, that there be a ship…the_ Flyin' Dutchman, sailed by a devil with horns an' a tail, and smoke curlin' out 'o his nose, that steals the souls of dyin' sailors, and his name be Davy Jones?"

"Aye!" all three whispered in earnest.

"Yes, well then down on yer knees, all of ye, because me name be King Charlie," Hector replied with a jaunty laugh, thinking that the description of Jones was utterly absurd.

Dead silence greeted him as the three stared back in obvious horror.

Hector's smile began to fade. "Surely ye jest?" he asked, starting to loose his cocksure manner.

McNeil and Taylor turned away, and the boy looked at Smith who remained for a moment longer.

"Just pray that you never need to find out, Mr. Barbossa." He walked away, leaving Hector standing at the rail with a prickly sensation crawling along his spine. He risked a quick glance across the moonlit water, gave a shudder, and decided to return to bed.

On deck the next morning, Hector sat repairing a sail next to Cezar, who was a little quieter than usual. He waited until there were few others around before he took the opportunity to ask the question he'd been dying to ask.

"May I ask ye a question?" the boy inquired.

"Of course," Cezar returned. He saw the look on the lad's face. "What is it?"

"What do ye know about Davy Jones?" Hector asked, trying his best to sound casual. He jumped at Cezar's reaction.

"Santa Maria, Barbossa! Do not speak his name aloud," Cezar whispered fiercely. "It is bad luck to repeat his name on the same ship too often."

"Sorry." Hector returned to his work, whishing he hadn't brought the subject up.

Cezar spoke more kindly again after a minute. "Why do you ask me this?"

Hector explained very briefly about the previous night's events.

"Ah, I see," replied Silva. "Let me tell you something, Barbossa. Marinheiros lie about a lot of things – the speed of their ship, the number of women they've had, but they never lie about something as serious at that."

Cezar went back to his work and said no more on the subject, but Hector found that he felt more anxiety about the legend sitting there in the bright sunshine with most of the crew around him after Cezar's comments, than he had in the middle of the night, on a nearly deserted deck with a dead body that had just been launched over the railing.

The next two weeks came and went, and as Cezar had prophesied, the butter had gone rancid, the crew resorted to salted meat, and the worms were beginning to appear in some of the bread. As for the water, well, it was rapidly approaching the point where you had to pinch your nose closed to be able to gag it down.

Nothing further was said about either McFadden or Davy Jones, and Hector decided that he was just as happy about both topics being left out of daily conversation.

The morning came when the lookout on duty spotted another ship well off to the east. It appeared to making its way in their general direction, but was too far away to tell where she was from, or precisely what sort of vessel she might be.

For the next half hour, the crew went about their business, but not without each man stopping periodically to try to get a read on what the captain's expression was as he monitored the nearing ship with the glass.

For Hector, it was just another ship, and his curiosity remained confined to what her country of origin might be, but it was becoming obvious that the anxiety level of many of the remaining crewmen was growing even as the distance between the two vessels closed. With all the discussion and speculation running through the men, it was not long before he heard someone whisper the word 'pirates'.

He looked at Cezar, who was periodically glancing at Wallace, waiting, like they all were, for some sort of reaction.

"Do ye really think they be pirates?" Hector asked, in a voice that said the trepidation felt by the rest of the crew was becoming contagious.

Cezar shook his head. "It is not likely. We are still a week and a half out of Jamaica, and most Caribbean pirates keep closer to the surrounding islands and the more traveled shipping lanes. Probably she is another merchant vessel, on her way out to sea."

Hector didn't think his friend sounded convinced. "Probably, ye say?"

Cezar shrugged. "Pirates have been known to sail these waters periodically, Barbossa..." He stopped short in mid-sentence and turned as they heard the captain speak to Smith.

"Make ready to hoist our flag, Mr. Smith." He then shouted up to the lookout. "Anything?"

"Nothing yet, sir," came the faint reply from overhead.

Smith returned from speaking to a pair of crew stationed at the mizzenmast. "Sir?" he asked the captain.

Wallace glanced up once more at the lookout and then at the nearing ship. He turned to the mate and opened his mouth, but said nothing, because at that very moment the lookout's voice called down.

"She's hoistin' her colors, sir!"

Wallace whirled and snapped the spyglass back to his eye, straining to see what flag rose atop the other ship's mast.

The entire crew's activity had ground to a tense standstill, and Hector and Cezar waited with the rest of them as Wallace concentrated.

"It's the Union Jack."

Appearing somewhat relieved, but far from relaxed, Wallace gave orders to the mate to hoist the _Tempest's_ own flag.

"Hoist the colors!" Smith called to the two waiting men. The Union Jack rose quickly and smoothly to wave at the top of the mizzenmast.

Hector breathed a sigh of relief and turned to grin at Cezar, but his brow quickly furrowed when he saw the man still concentrating on Captain Wallace. "Aren't ye relieved they be flyin' the same flag as us?"

Cezar held a finger to his mouth to indicate Hector should wait. The ship was close enough now that tiny indistinct figures could be seen moving on her deck.

Wallace watched another few moments, while the tension continued to grow and the distance continued to shrink. At last he lowered the glass, looking relieved.

"Sir?" Smith asked, obviously anxious for news.

Wallace heaved a great sigh of relief. "They're watching us as closely as we are watching them. Not a soul is moving on that deck either." Wallace indicated the immobilized crew around them.

Another moment went by as the ship slowed and drew closer, and it became more certain that she was going to hold her colors.

The crew began crowding the rail as the new ship drew alongside and slowly passed. Her captains acknowledging each other with a wave, and Hector turned to Cezar for an explanation of what had happened as messages were shouted across from ship to ship. The other crew was likewise crowded at the rail, along with several passengers, including a pair of women with parasols that were returning to England from Port Royal.

"Ah," Cezar said, relaxed at last, " your education continues, yes?" He watched as the boy figured it out for himself.

"I understand," Hector began, "the captain waited to see if she truly be from England or if she might be a pirate vessel playing a trick."

Cezar nodded his approval. "Very good."

"And what would have happened, had she been a pirate ship?" Hector asked.

"Most likely the captain would have run up the white flag and gambled on peaceful surrender."

"Surrender?" The boy sounded horrified.

Cezar sighed. "Yes. This is a merchant vessel, Hector..."

"But the guns..." the boy started.

"Yes, we have cannons and guns too, but this crew is relatively small for the size ship we are, and if a battle did not go well for us...it would not go well for us after," Cezar said ominously.

He chucked as he saw the boy mulling it over. "Hector, most pirates want to be on and off a captured ship as quickly as they can, with the most profit and the least trouble possible. They are fearsome and savage fighters, but they also value their own skins."

He looked up at where the other ship was pulling away from their port side. "Despite the stories you hear, most pirates prefer not to fight if they don't have to. Surrender and cooperation from a targeted ship's crew often results in lenient treatment...although not always."

Hector snorted. "Not always?"

Cezar smiled. "It depends on the pirates. There are some that enjoy carnage as much as plunder. Even some of the more reasonable ones will shoot a few men just to make an impression."

"That'd be an impression that'd sink in quick," Hector replied, nodding.

"Yes, it would," Cezar agreed. "Think about it –if you were the captain of a pirate ship, Barbossa," he grinned as he saw the boy laughing. "Would you waste time and energy needlessly killing men who had done you no wrong, or would you grab the loot and run?"

Hector mulled it over for a minute or two longer than Cezar expected. "I guess I'd grab and run," he said, still looking thoughtful and watching the ship they'd encountered sailing away west.

"What?" Cezar asked, wondering what the boy was pondering.

"What about captives?" he asked. He spoke out loud but it was a question he had posed to himself as much as to Cezar.

Cezar shrugged. "More time and more effort. Most pirates don't bother."

"Yes, but if the goal be to maximize yer profit," Hector started, "there's little effort in holdin' a prisoner fer ransom."

"Hector, most sailors don't have family who are able to pay the kind of ransom that would make it worth while for a pirate to hold him hostage," Cezar said as they sat down together to finish working on the sail they'd been repairing.

"Aye, that'd be true enough in my case," Hector replied, "but mayhaps I not be intendin' to take sailors fer ransom," he replied, giving the older man a wry grin.

Cezar laughed aloud. "You? I hope you are not intending to take anyone for ransom, my friend!"

Hector laughed along with him. "Aye, but ye be the one to suggest I be a pirate, Cezar!"

"Purely hypothetical speculation," Silva replied, still laughing heartily.

"I dunno," Hector said, picking up the edge of the canvas in front of him. "I think I be takin' a shine to the name of 'Captain Barbossa'." He winked at Cezar and burst into laughter.

Cezar, still amused, rolled his eyes and pointed at the canvas in Hector's lap.

"Sew."

Jamaica drew closer as the days passed, and Hector found that he was itching to get back on dry land. Work aboard the _Tempest_ was grueling and could be monotonous, and for the first time, the boy found that he was beginning to feel homesick.

Knowing Hector as well as he did by this point, Cezar picked up on the fact that the lad seemed subdued and even somewhat downcast over several days. Remembering his first trip away from his home in Viseu, it didn't take much for him to surmise what was bothering the boy.

He went in search of Hector one evening when the boy didn't eat dinner with him on deck as had been customary throughout their voyage so far. He found him cocooned in his hammock, and reached underneath to poke Hector in the back. "Hello."

The canvas lump that was Hector spoke back from within the confines of the hammock. "Hello yerself."

"You missed dinner, Barbossa," Cezar said gently to the slightly swaying form. "Are you ill?"

"I've had me share of worms today, thankee," came the slightly sullen reply.

Cezar laughed. "Cheer up, we will be there in a few days, my friend!"

The swinging lump said nothing in reply.

Cezar waited another moment, and then pulled an empty barrel over next to the occupied hammock and sat down with a sigh. "When I went on my first trip out to sea, it was about a month or so into it that I thought I had made a big mistake," Cezar began. "It was then that I began missing my home."

Silence still emanated from the swaying bump in the canvas.

"Is it so with you, Barbossa?" Silva asked him quietly.

A pause, and then came a faint reply. "Aye."

"It will get better, my friend. We have many new adventures waiting for us in Port Royal, yes?" Cezar waited patiently for an answer of some sort.

Finally, after a few minutes of the canvas swaying to and fro, a deep sigh issued from within, and then Hector's head appear. "I suppose." He flipped himself out and onto his feet expertly, and stood next to Cezar with something in his hands.

After getting no explanation for the next minute, Cezar finally inquired about the item Hector was holding. "What is that you have, Barbossa?"

Hector started as if he'd forgotten someone was sitting there. He glanced down at his hands and then offered the item to Cezar who took it from him gently. It appeared to be a wadded up lump of dark cloth, maybe black or very dark green. It was difficult to say for certain in the dim light. Something hard was wrapped inside.

"May I?" Cezar asked before he unwrapped it.

Hector nodded and watched to see what Cezar's reaction would be.

When Cezar began peeling back the cloth, a heavy gold chain poured out of the bundle and stopped abruptly, dangling from the object it was anchored to. He opened the parcel further and extracted a large flat bronze medallion.

Cezar let out a low whistle. "Where did you get this, Barbossa?" He held it up to get a better look at it, and watched as the large red gemstone in the center of the ornate piece glinted in the low light.

"It was me father's," Hector began. "Me mother kept it fer thirteen years and gave it to me the night before I left."

Cezar contemplated the medallion for a moment longer, wrapped it carefully and handed it back to the boy. "That serpent is a good luck symbol. You should keep that close to you always."

"I do," Hector replied, tucking the cloth away deep in his pocket. "I figure it'll prove to him that I be his son... if I find him." He wore a faraway look of determination that Cezar could recognize even in the half-light.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

**--**

The rest of the trip was essentially uneventful, and once more Captain Wallace's crew successfully pulled the _Tempest_ into Port Royal.

By the time the last mooring line had been secured, Hector was nearly beside himself with anticipation of being able to explore the town and finally start trying to track down any information that might lead him to find out if his father was dead or still alive in the Caribbean.

Unfortunately, the quartermaster had other priorities, and unloading the goods they had carried from England would be first. Unlike the half day it had taken to unload the small caravel in Bristol, unloading the significantly larger brig would take the majority of the next three days.

Cezar managed to keep Hector's energies focused on moving cargo, and his mind focused on the fact that he would be paid only when the work was finished. "Patience. Your adventure can wait another day yet, _Patife_," he said good-naturedly. "You are going to need a coin or two in your pocket when you start this quest of yours."

Hector knew his friend was right, but he would roll his eyes and hurry off to the ship's heavily laden hold again.

Mr. Murdock, who had been overseeing the unloading process, stopped alongside Cezar to watch the boy hurry back into the hold. "That's a hard worker there," he commented.

Cezar sighed. "That is true, but mostly he is impatient to be done with the work and off to something more exciting."

Murdock gave Cezar a ghost of a smile. "Yeh'd feel the same way if you were his age."

Cezar laughed. "I believe you are right, Mr. Murdock."

"Either way," Murdock continued, "the captain's pleased with how the voyage went and how you two handled yerselves. He wants both of you fer the trip back if yeh're interested."

"I will speak with the boy," Cezar said.

Murdock nodded and started to walk away. "I'll need an answer day after tomorrow or so. Ship sails in a few weeks."

When the point finally came where the ship had been emptied and the crew had been paid, Hector found himself at a loss as to what to do next. The money he had been given, although far from an extravagant salary, was more money than the boy had ever had. He was torn between the urge to run and spend it in the market of Port Royal, and putting it aside to bring with him back home. It would insure that his mother could keep her home for some time to come.

Guilt at the thought of spending it pulled at him, but finally the temptations of the wonders at hand gained a little headway. Hector compromised by deciding that he would allow himself to spend the bonus that Bretton had given him and save what he had earned on board the _Tempest._

The first night ashore, Cezar and Hector made their way to a tavern called _The Old Stag,_ an establishment favored by seafaring men of all kinds. When they stepping inside the noisy, crowded room, Cezar managed to scout out a suitable corner that was just being vacated, and indicated that Hector should go and stake a claim quickly at the table.

Hector waived him off and jerked his head in the direction of the table, indicating that Cezar should be seated, and headed for the bar before the older man could say anything. He was determined that he was going to buy his companion a round now that he could actually afford to do so.

Ducking sideways between tables, Hector managed to squeeze his way through to where the barkeep had just handed over a pair of tankards to a man with the darkest skin he had ever seen. The man's black hair hung in long thick cords punctuated with colorful beads, and his accent was thick and rich and unlike anything the boy had ever heard. He was still staring after where the Jamaican had disappeared into the crowd when he heard a voice behind him at the bar.

"Is there sommat y' need?" The barkeep asked. "I'm righ' out straigh' an' I din nae hev time to be messin' aboot."

Hector held up two fingers. "Rum," he said, trying to sound as if he were accustomed to doing this every night.

The barkeep reached for a bottle and mugs. "Y' plannin' to drink all that yeself in one go, laddie?" He looked a little amused.

Hector took a minute to catch on that the man was being good natured in his comment, and he broke into a wry grin. "Well, it'll not be drinkin' itself any time soon," he said in return.

The barman smiled and set the first mug on the bar, tipping the bottle and pouring a measure into the next. "So, yeh're a drinkin' man an' ye hava smart auld mooth?" He laughed. "Have ye t' coin fer me puttin' up w' yeh?"

Hector slapped his coin on the bar in response.

The barman raised an eyebrow at the amount of money the boy had, but quickly swept it off the counter and held out some lesser coins for change. He leaned over the bar to whisper. "Yeh be car'ful how much boodle yeh be shinin' oot in 'ere." He swept a meaningful glance around the crowded room.

Hector nodded solemnly, understanding that the barkeep was giving him a bit of a warning. "Aye, that I will." He nodded and picked up the two mugs and wove his way through the crowd back to where Cezar had planted himself comfortably in a chair.

Unable to help being just a little smug at having procured drinks on his own, Hector grinned as he set the rum firmly in front of Cezar, and slid into the chair next to him. "I see ye have yer escape route planned out," he said, nodding at the back door that was only a few feet away.

Cezar smiled a little to himself as he picked up the mug, ignoring the boy's comment. His expression changed to one of mild surprise, and he raised the mug in a small gesture of salute to Hector. "From now on, _Patife_, we let you buy the drinks, yes?" The bartender, amused by the boy's pluck, had poured a more generous measure than was customary.

Both of them looked up when they heard a familiar voice, and nodded to Murdock and Smith as the two men joined them at the table.

The evening flew by, and Hector found that once Murdock was off the ship with his responsibilities temporarily suspended, he was an interesting drinking companion full of remarkable tales of the voyages he'd been on.

Full of better food than he'd had in weeks, Hector leaned on his elbow, only half listening to Murdock's story of how he'd gotten the scar on his arm in a knife fight years before. The rum was making him a bit drowsy, and he was just beginning to think about suggesting finding lodging for the evening, when he became aware of the fact that Murdock had stopped talking.

Afraid that he had been deemed rude by not giving his full attention to the speaker, Hector looked at his three older companions. They weren't looking at him. Their attention, like that of most of the men in the tavern, was focused surreptitiously on the three men that were now settling themselves at a table a short way from the bar.

The first of the men was unremarkable, dressed in the plain clothes of an average sailor. The second was another Jamaican, taller and broader than the one Hector met at the bar by a fair margin.

It was the third man that signaled the bartender silently before sitting at the table with his companions. Hector thought he had never seen a man that so thoroughly looked like a man of the sea than the third occupant of the table.

He was average in height and build, but his clothing gave him the appearance of being somewhat better off than his two comrades. He wore an expensive-looking if somewhat worn waistcoat of black, and a well-made black tricorn with the same broken-in appearance sat upon his head.

His face looked like the tanner had taken and worked his skin and then given it back to him in it's darkened, weather-lined condition. A patch covered the place where his left eye had been, but it didn't stop him from shooting a look about the room that told the entire company that they'd best be getting back to their own business.

Hector watched as one after the other, men all about the room went back to their own conversations, even as the barkeep hurried to bring three mugs and a full bottle of rum to the table.

"Hector," Cezar said, getting no response from the enthralled teenager. He reached over and poked the boy in the arm. "Stop staring."

Hector looked back at his three companions somewhat sheepishly as he realized how intently he'd been watching the newcomers. He busied himself taking a sip from his drink

"Who is that?" Cezar asked quietly, leaning closer to Murdock.

Murdock took a pull form his own mug before answering. "Ah, that'd be James Hartwell," he said quietly. "Better known to most in these parts as "Hawkeye Jim."

"Hawkeye Jim?" Cezar asked, risking a glance at the threesome and turning back to Murdock.

"Aye," Murdock answered. "He's been right hand to Morgan for better'n three years now."

Hector wanted to ask more about Hawkeye Jim Hartwell and who Morgan was, but at that moment a cry went out from the table where the threesome sat. All three of them had raised their mugs in salute toward the door where newest arrival stood. The rest of the tavern went dead silent.

In the doorway, a tall brooding figure stepped out of the shadows, and Hector knew at that moment if ever he figured a man were to be a pirate, it was this one.

He stared despite himself, taking in the scarlet, embroidered frock coat, the bright sash at the man's hip and the elegant hat crowned with the tail feathers of a pheasant. The same long dark cords of hair as the Jamaican wore tumbled from under the great hat. Quick dark eyes in a fierce-looking face peered out with a hint of menace at the occupants of the room.

At first impressed by the outlandish attire and commanding presence, Hector involuntarily sucked his breath in when the black gaze came 'round to meet his own eyes for a moment and then swept by as the man finished his examination of the room. He made his way through the silence to sit at the table with Hawkeye Jim and his companions.

The barkeep had moved with lightning speed, and made it to the table just as the pirate seated himself heavily in the chair opposite Hartwell. He placed the mug he brought instantly in the hand the newcomer held out without looking and then quickly scampered back behind the bar. The pirate took a long impressive draught and then leaned forward to engage the others in conversation.

Little by little, conversations resumed around the room, and Cezar and Hector looked expectantly at Murdock for some explanation. Murdock merely held up his hand a little in a silencing gesture to indicate it was best not to say anything at that point. "There will be trouble here tonight," he said so quietly the others had to lean in to hear him. "I'm going to leave. Wait five minutes and then meet me outside."

He turned to Smith. "Wait ten, and then join us." Smith nodded as Murdock stood up and walked casually across the room and out the front door.

Five minutes was an eternity for Hector who certainly wanted to get out if there was going to be trouble, but mostly wanted to hear more about the pirate from Murdock. He stared into his mug, barely able to contain his curiosity and his urge to steal a glance at Hartwell's table. Finally he felt Cezar nudge his elbow and he rose to follow along behind as his friend head across the room.

Curiosity won out, especially since Cezar wasn't watching him, and he risked a one last glance at the pirate as he passed. He never knew how fortunate it was that the object of his interest was busy speaking with the Jamaican at Hartwell's table and didn't catch him looking.

Outside, Cezar and Hector walked along with Smith and Murdock as they headed for the inn they hoped to obtain lodging at. On the way Murdock confirmed Hector's theory that the man in the red coat had indeed been a pirate.

"Aye. That were Captain Teague," Murdock informed him as they walked side by side, " and there are plenty of those who say Hartwell is a pirate as well."

"But right here in Port Royal?" he asked, puzzled that the man would make such a blatant appearance.

Murdock glanced sideways at the boy and nodded. "Yes. Yeh'd be surprised at how many pirates there are in Port Royal, Kingston, Tortuga."

Cezar interjected his own question. "The authorities allow this? They tolerate these _pirata_?"

"Tolerate?" Murdock replied. "They all but celebrate the fact with Morgan in control of these waters."

"Who is this Captain Morgan?" Cezar asked, curiosity getting the better of him as well.

Murdock snorted slightly. "_Sir_ Henry Morgan," he said, correcting Cezar_._ "He was knighted a ways back by our good King Charlie."

"Knighted?" Hector asked incredulously, obviously impressed. "Are ye jesting?"

Murdock shook his head.

"You have already more than implied that he is a pirate, Murdock," Cezar responded.

"Aye. Depends on who yeh ask. Some say he's the greatest military man ever to sail these waters. Others say he's the worst son of a bitch to sail the Spanish Main."

"What do you think?" Cezar asked.

"Me?" Murdock answered. "I think it's best in general to keep my opinions to myself," he said, dropping his voice as he looked about them a little, "but if it stays right here b'tween us…. I think there's a lot of truth to both sides, but fer my bit, I think he's a pirate…plain and simple. As crafty a bastard as ever there was, but well, there….I've said my piece."

He halted in front of the _Silver Dagger Resthouse_. "Time to call it a day." His tone firmly implied that he wouldn't be offering any more opinions on pirates tonight.

Hector didn't think he was ever going to get any sleep. The inn had been doing a fair business that evening, and he now shared a scratchy bed with Cezar in the only tiny room they'd been able to secure for the night.

While the older man had fallen asleep right away, Hector laid awake still with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The fact that Cezar was snoring loudly next to him was not helping matters much, but it was mostly that thoughts about where to start looking for his father, intermingled with those about his first sighting of an actual pirate and competed for his attention.

Was his father alive?

Was Morgan really a pirate?

Where would he look for his father?

Why was Murdock so anxious to leave when Teague showed up?

Hector was convinced that he was never going to be able to drift off, and then suddenly he felt his arm being shaken.

He opened his eyes to bright sunlight streaming in the small window near his head, and Cezar grinning down on him from where he stood next to the bed. "I didn't think you were ever going to open your eyes," he said. "You were sleeping like the dead, Barbossa!"

Hector pulled himself into a sitting position, stretched and turned his neck to each side to work the kinks out of it, and blearily climbed out of bed.

"So," Cezar said after they had breakfasted down stairs, "today begins your quest, yes?"

Hector blinked involuntarily at the bright sunlight as they stepped out of the _Silver Dagger_ into the street, where a warm breeze tugged gently at his hair and blew it over his eyes. It was getting a bit long, and the boy resolved to cut it later as he ran his hand back through it to get it out of his face.

He nodded absently in answer to Cezar's inquiry. "I don't even know where to begin lookin'," he said, glancing up the street and then down toward the water.

Cezar clapped him on the arm. "Come," he said kindly, indicating that they should head for the water. "I have a few ideas." He glanced sideways at his young companion as they walked. "You know this is not going to be easy….there is the possibility that you may never……"

"I know," Hector answered, a little more sharply than he meant to. Instantly feeling guilty, he turned to where Cezar held up a hand to ward off the apology and smiled at him.

"Very well, let us wander to the docks, _Patife_," Cezar finished.

They spent the day speaking to sailors, mates, a few ship's captains, and finally the harbormaster. Their brief explanation of what they were after and who they were looking for was the same each time, as was the answer given by each and every man they interviewed that day.

No.

No one had heard of a seaman named Mateus Barbossa, and no one had much of an idea where else they might try.

Exhausted as much from disappointment and frustration by the end of the day as by all the walking they had done, Hector finally allowed himself to be led back into town.

"Let us find a better place to stay and have some food," Cezar said cheerfully. "Then you will feel better. Besides, there is always tomorrow, _Patife_."

They walked along for a few moments, Cezar whistling brightly, and Hector silent and brooding, apparently absorbed with the lack of any progress, whatsoever. Cezar saw the boy's brow furrow in thought and knew a question was coming.

"Cezar," he said at last, just as they set foot on the doorstep of an inn that held greater promise than the first one, "what is this name that ye be callin' me lately?" he asked, looking a tad annoyed.

"Why, I have given you a little _nome abreviado_, my friend," Cezar said with a hint of mischief. "A nickname, Barbossa….many seamen have them."

"An' what have ye decided to call me with this _nickname_?" Hector asked skeptically. He suspected Cezar of saddling him with something dreadfully akin to 'boy' or 'child' or perhaps worse.

"Patife is…." Cezar chewed his lip in thought as he searched for the right words, "how do you say? Ah yes, a vagabond…..a rogue. Yes, that's it –a rogue."

Hector thought it over for a moment. "I can live with that," he said, better cheer creeping into his voice.

A wide grin spread out behind the black beard as Cezar saw the lad actually starting to smile. "Good," he said, clapping a hand on the boy's shoulder and then stepping through the door to scout the room. "I am glad you like it. Let us drink to your new name together," he said. "You buy."

Hector rolled his eyes, but went to the bar in better spirits, and came back with two generous measures of rum again.

Cezar raised his drink in salute, as Hector sat down across from him. "Good health, _Patife_," he said with a smile.

Hector raised his mug in return, "And friendship," he added, clacking his drink against the one Cezar proffered. The older man took a deep draught as Hector himself did the same.

"So," Silva began, wiping at his beard a little with the back of his hand and setting the mug down, "now that we have drunk to it, it is official, Barbossa. _Patife_ it is, and a rogue you shall be for the rest of our days."

**A/N**: Cezar teasingly gives Hector the nickname after they joke on board the _Tempest_, speculating how Hector would handle things if he were a pirate captain. Poor Cezar has no idea how darkly prophetical his nickname is.

If Disney can play fast and loose with dates, so can I. Most of what I include later about Morgan is based on truth, but the actual timeline is tweaked just a little so that by the end of the story I end up with Barbossa shortly before the famous mutiny on the Black Pearl.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**.

--

The inn was the _Crabby Wench_, and her owner, in hopes that it sounded clever and would indicate an establishment that catered well to sailors, painted that name on the sign swinging over the door. That particular message it indeed sent loud and clear. The innkeeper was a robust, good-natured fellow who served good food and fine drink and kept spotless rooms, and soon established a better than fair reputation for her.

However, to the amusement of most of her patrons, the inn's name had the additional connotation of a whore with an unpleasantly itchy and contagious condition, and while the inn indeed had a spotless track record, the name became something of a bawdy joke among the seamen who frequented her, inexplicably endearing the place to them all the more.

Hector would not be the first young sailor to get carried away at the _Wench _due to inexperience with alcohol, just as he would not be the last. Cezar's toast had put him in much better spirits, as had the fact that they had decided on several new avenues to pursue while trying to determine the fate of the older Barbossa.

The gathering that evening was a lively bunch consisting of a handful of locals, a pair of off-duty officers of the king's navy, and members of the crews of the _Tempest_, the _East Wind _and the _Wayfarer_ that were all currently in port.

It was really the competition that arose in the corner that was the cause of the boy's undoing. While he and Cezar had been chatting with a pair of sailors they knew from the _Tempest_, another pair of her crew had taken up the challenge from a pair that belonged to the _East Wind,_ and begun a contest of knives thrown at a target made from a barrel top.

Hector had nearly finished his first cup of rum, and probably would have been content to just sit and enjoy the rest of the evening, but a few minutes later a cheer went up as the final throw by one of the _East Wind_ sailors missed its mark, making _Tempest_ the winning ship.

Evidently the losing pair were required to buy a round for any of the winning pair's shipmates, and the dozen or so members of _Tempest's_ crew who happened to be present, including Cezar and Hector, now found themselves with another round of rum to enjoy.

With a full mug now awaiting him, Hector did his best to drink the remainder of the first round quickly, and then pulled the second mug closer. He thought at that moment how exciting it was to have his first round that was bought by another ship, and decided that this was probably one of the greatest nights of his life.

He was thoroughly enjoying himself and the company at hand, when he noticed Cezar getting up, apparently to go and watch the next match between _East Wind_ and _Wayfarer_.

The pairs of participants had changed to allow more seamen to enjoy the game, but the wager remained the same. The losers would have to buy a round for any members present of the winning ship's crew.

Curious about the results of the next round, Hector grabbed up his second drink, and took it with him to join Cezar where he was standing next to Murdock and one of the off-duty navy men.

After watching the first throws by all four competitors, Cezar leaned over to Hector to whisper. "It will be the _Wayfarer_, I wager. The shorter one from _East Wind_ does not keep his wrist stiff enough. He is fair, but not in the same category as the other three."

Hector watched with increased interest, wondering if his friend's prediction would be correct.

It was.

On the third set of throws, the short sailor's throw went a little wild, and _Wayfarer's_ crew earned herself another round.

Under the initial influences of the first rum that he'd drank, Hector was finding it easier and easier to get through his next drink. By the time the second match was over, he'd nearly finished it.

Money changed hands in the expanding crowd around the target area. Drinks were brought out and passed to the members of the _Wayfarer's_ crew.

Despite the fact that he was now feeling that all was right with the world, and was doing his best to polish off his second rum in the great spirit of camaraderie that pervaded the room, Hector didn't miss the brief conversation between Murdock and Silva.

When Cezar handed over his rum and said 'hold this', it occurred to him what they must have discussed. As the call came for two members of the crew of _Wayfarer_, and two from _Tempest_, the winner of the first round, Murdock and Silva stepped into the clearing to meet their two opponents.

Both throws by _Wayfarer _were in the colored bulls eye ring, and Hector would find out later that these two were probably the best competitors that either _Wayfarer_ or _East Wind_ could have produced.

Murdock's throw was outstanding, noticeably closer to center, and Cezar landed a respectable throw comparable to what the two from _Wayfarer_ had thrown.

Hector set his own empty drink down on a vacant nearby table, and noticed more wagers were being placed in the group around the target area. He watched both of _Wayfarer's _next two solid throws, each closer to center than their first shots.

As Murdock stood up to throw again, nervous anticipation made the boy oblivious to the fact that he was absentmindedly taking swigs from Cezar's drink.

Again, Murdock landed a throw slightly closer to center, beating Wayfarer's two tosses. Cezar's second throw was a little outside what Wayfarer had thrown, and the house rules determined that the round was a draw.

More money changed hands around him, and Hector found he was feeling giddy and lightheaded with all the rum and excitement. It was down to the last throw by the four competitors to determine the winning ship for the evening.

The first of the _Wayfarer's_ crew threw a remarkable throw, and hit the target only an inch from dead center. The second thrower made a good toss, not as near to center as the knife sunk by his mate, but his best one yet.

Murdock's blade sent up a rowdy cheer when it struck the target, quivering from a point that was nearly dead center. All Cezar had to do was make a throw as good or better than the lesser of the two made by the _Wayfarer_ and their ship would win.

Hector wasn't sure he could watch the last throw, but was unable to look away as Cezar stepped up and studied the target. The blade left his hand in the quickest move Hector had ever seen, and the knife 'thunked' into the target alongside Murdock's knife, besting him by less than a finger's breath and protruding from dead center. Cheers went up from all three crews in appreciation of the throw.

The barkeep met them at their table with the round of drinks provided by the _Wayfarer_ in order to hand the first ones to Cezar and Murdock. Hector found himself with the now empty mug that Cezar had entrusted him with, and a fresh drink on the table in front of him.

Completely amused by almost anything that was said at the table now, Hector discovered himself laughing heartily with his companions, celebrating the victory by joining them in a toast and drinking another great swig of rum. He never finished the fourth round.

Laughing hysterically one moment, the feeling that crept upon him the next told him something was very wrong, and the brief but overwhelming wave of nausea was all the warning he would get. Hector took advantage of Cezar's customary habit of situating them near an emergency exit, and he launched himself out of his seat and through the door ungracefully.

Out behind the _Crabby Wench_, Hector staggered and fell to his knees, heaving noisily and emptying the contents of his guts in a torrent of vomit into the alley. Repeatedly retching and gagging, he fought to stay on his knees as he nearly blacked out, swaying dangerously.

Another violent bout of vomiting hit him, and he doubled over spewing the last of his dinner and four rounds of rum into the darkened street.

Coughing, sputtering, dizzy and miserable, he made one attempt to push himself upright off the ground. As he did so the alley swirled by him, and he had the distinct sensation of somebody pulling a rug out from under his feet as he crashed heavily back into the dirt. Darkness overtook him and he lay where he fell.

When several long moments went by inside and there was no sign of Hector returning, Cezar finally slid out from behind the table and followed where the boy had frantically dashed out into the alley.

When he saw the prone figure laying in the dark, he surmised what had happened, and blamed himself for not keeping a closer watch on what the lad had consumed. Four generous measures of rum might have not have affected a seasoned sailor nearly so much, but for a thirteen year old inexperienced with the strong drink, it had been overwhelming.

Cezar knelt and nudged the boy gently several times before a groan emanated from where Hector's face was plastered in the dirt, and the older man helped to roll the boy over and pull him into a quasi-sitting position. He nearly gagged himself at the smell, and the fact that chunks of vomit were stuck on the boy's face and shirt and had plastered his hair to the right side of his face.

"Ah, Barbossa," he said, unheard by the figure he supported that might loosely have been deemed conscious, "I need three eyes to keep watch over you."

Somehow he managed to get the boy on his feet and half dragged him as he groaned aloud again to a rain barrel behind the building. Deciding that he felt bad, but that it was for Hector's own good, Cezar managed to prop him on his feet in front of the barrel, and grabbing the boy by his hair, ducked his head into the cold water.

The sensation of being submerged caused Hector to reflexively begin flailing, and Cezar yanked him out of the barrel again, water spraying everywhere and the boy coughing violently. It took a minute to get Hector's attention focused enough to tell him to try to stand, and even when he did, his legs betrayed him and he fell arse-first back into the barrel.

Cezar saw there was no way he was going to get Hector to walk inside and up the stairs to the room they had obtained, and ended up slinging the inebriated teenager across his shoulders with an effort. He managed to get Hector to their room and put the boy to bed, shaking his head with an understanding smile and a memory of the first time he himself had been in such a state.

Hector awoke in the morning with no recollection of anything past Cezar's final throw of the knife. He could barely sit up, his head was splitting, his mouth tasted foul and felt like cotton, and his stomach still was protesting against all the rum he had poured down his throat the night before.

"Believe it or not," Cezar's voice said from across the room, "you will feel better by tonight."

Hector held his head in his hands and managed only the smallest glance at where Cezar was sitting with an amused grin in a chair a short ways away. There was no way he was possibly going to recover from this. The room still spun if he opened his eyes for too long, and he didn't think that he would ever feel like eating anything ever again.

"Here," Cezar said, offering what looked like a glass of murky water.

"No," Hector protested weakly, closing his eyes again as his stomach rumbled with even the thought of trying to swallow anything.

"Trust me on this, Barbossa," Cezar said, putting a hand behind the boy's back and forcing him to sit up, "I have walked down the road you are walking many times before. This will help"

Hector didn't think he had the strength to protest and tentatively drank a tiny swallow of the sour-smelling concoction that was in front of him. It had a pungent but not unpleasant taste that he would learn later was from limejuice and ginger, but it stayed down, so he took a little more. When it showed no sign of returning a few minutes later Cezar made him polish off the rest of the glass.

"Now you sleep," the older man said. He got no argument, and left the room quietly as the ill boy immediately complied with the order.

Hours later, well into the late afternoon, Hector awoke again to the realization that he was probably going to live. He was thirsty and still had a ghost of a headache, but most of his colossal hangover was gone.

After getting out of bed and cleaning himself up, he glanced at the late day sun well on it's way across the heavens and realized that he'd missed out on a day of searching for information about his father.

"Stupid," he said under his breath, irritated with himself for getting so drunk. "It's not a wonder at all that I need a babysitter."

"Babysitter?" Cezar said from where he'd opened the door, "more like you need a guardian angel, eh _Patife_?" He was grinning broadly.

Hector gave him a slight sneer, not quite as amused as his friend.

"Ah, someone is a little out of sorts," Cezar said, obviously still amused. He flung himself into one of the two wooden chairs in the room. "Let me give you information that might cheer you up."

Hector sat down on the edge of the bed a little petulantly and looked expectantly back at Cezar.

"While you were getting your beauty rest today, I went on a little expedition across town, talking to as many shop owners, barkeeps and sailors as I could find."

One of Hector's eyebrows quirked upward. "So?"

"So," Cezar continued, "I met a man who sailed on a voyage to Spain with your father after he left home."

Hector was on his feet. "You did? When? Is he alive? Does he know where? Does he….."

Cezar held up his hand in a calming gesture. "All I got was a _little_ information. He knew nothing of your father other than after they journeyed together to Spain, your father joined the crew of a ship bound for the Caribbean as first mate."

"Did he tell ye anything else?" Hector asked, bad mood now forgotten and caught up with what Cezar had learned.

"Yes. The ship he sailed on was called the _San Pedro_, and she was captained by a man called Rivero." Cezar said as his tone took on a more serious note. "That's about it."

"I see," Hector replied, "So, now we must seek the San Pedro…."

"She's been sunk."

"Well, then, we must track down Rivero……."

"He's dead, but we can still look for people who knew of him…"

There was something odd in the way Cezar said the last words, and it bothered Hector. "What?" he asked, knowing something important was at hand from the look on his friend's face.

Cezar opened his mouth to say something, closed it and then finally spoke. "There is one more thing that I must tell you, and I am not sure you are going to like what you hear," Cezar said, looking concerned now.

"What is it?" Hector asked, getting a little impatient.

"This Rivero….your father…..they…."

"What?" The boy demanded even as he realized what Cezar was probably going to say.

"Barbossa….your father was a pirate."

Hector sat down once more, decidedly ill again.

"So, you see why this complicates things," Cezar was saying.

"Ye might say that," Hector agreed with a single slow nod. "How do we start askin' pirates if they…"

"We don't." Silva cut him off firmly. "We stick to the taverns –we can try the local magistrate….no," he said, seeing the wheels turning in the boy's head, "we are not going looking for pirates!"

"But Cezar!" the young Barbossa protested.

"No. It is too dangerous." he said it with an air of finality.

Anger flared up behind the gray-blue eyes, and the boy's voice dropped to a frustrated half-whisper. "Ye'll not be tellin' me what to do, Cezar," he said. "I can do as I please, an' if it please me to be talkin' to pirates to find out what I need, then so be it."

Cezar sighed. He understood the lad's frustration, but he'd grown too attached to let him go off and do something foolish and dangerous. He also understood the other message contained in the boy's angry words, _'you're not my father'_. While completely true, it nevertheless pained Cezar to a degree to have his concern thrown back at him.

"Let us talk this over tomorrow," the older of the two suggested in an attempt to diffuse the situation and Hector's anger. "Why don't we get you something to eat, yes?"

Hector said nothing, but nodded, understanding what Cezar was trying to do, and reluctantly followed him to go in search of dinner.

Thinking he might be able to just manage to eat a few bites after feeling so ill all day, Hector discovered that once he caught the smell of food, that he was absolutely _starving_. Even Cezar was impressed with what the boy managed to put away at dinner. He also noted that the boy wanted nothing to do with rum that night, or for quite some time after.

Trying to avoid another argument, Cezar suggested a way to keep them occupied for a while, and leaning one arm on the table between them, held his dagger up in front of the boy's face. "Would you like to learn?" He asked when he saw the questioning look in Hector's eyes.

The look turned to one of unabashed joy. "Aye, that I would!" he said enthusiastically. "Would ye teach me, Cezar?" He had been completely impressed that Silva had both helped to win the competition the evening before, and saved his life that night in the hold with McFadden by his skill with the dagger.

Any of the patrons that sat in the vicinity of the barrel-top target soon cleared out to find a safer spot across the room. While Cezar's technique was flawless, it was clear that the teenager's skill was less than impressive when he missed the target completely and the knife thwacked into the center of the closest table of drinkers.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

**--**

Cezar quickly ordered another round of drinks to appease the irritated sailors, retrieved the knife, and went back to instructing his protégé. "Keep your wrist absolutely stiff, _Patife_. Watch me," he said, demonstrating once again how to hold the blade and throw, hitting the target nearly dead center each time he demonstrated.

Little by little, Hector began to get the hang of it, and by the end of the lesson was at least striking the target most of the time, and some of his throws actually stuck.

When it became late and the pair headed up to get some sleep, Cezar went off to answer a call of nature and came back to find that Hector had flopped onto his bed and shoved his hands behind his head, obviously lost in thought as his brow furrowed in that way that he had just before he was about to ask a question.

Surmising that the topic of interviewing pirates was about to come up again from where he had dropped onto his own bed, Cezar was surprised at what was really on the lad's mind.

"Cezar," he began thoughtfully, " I noticed tonight that ye never once strayed farther than an inch from the center of the target during me lesson."

"I have been throwing a knife all my life, _Patife_," Cezar replied with a shrug and then a half-stifled yawn.

"Well enough, and that may rightly be true," Hector said, rolling over on his side to prop himself up on his elbow and stare across the room. There was an odd look on his face, like he was perhaps trying not to smile. "But last evening ye managed to throw two blades that came not anywhere near the middle before ye made the smartest strike of the night to win the match," he continued, a wry grin now sliding slowly into place.

Cezar had likewise propped himself up on his elbow. "So?"

"You had me worried at first that ye might not be up to the task," Hector replied meaningfully.

"That would be the entire point, Barbossa," Cezar replied with a deepening smile behind the beard.

"So," Hector continued, "out of the goodness of yer heart, you decided to liven up the match by missin' a few throws, did you?"

"Something like that," came the amused answer.

The gray-blue gaze met Cezar's in challenge from across the room. "It'd have naught to do with financial gain on yer own part, now would it, Cezar?" The boy was beginning to laugh just a little wickedly.

Cezar joined in. "Of course not," he said lightly, rolling over on his back, hands behind his head. "You have a vivid imagination, _Patife_." When he saw the boy flop back on his own bed, Cezar slid a hand furtively under his pillow, thinking he'd best not let the boy discover what he'd placed there.

"Lookin' for this?" came Hector's voice from across the room.

Cezar shot a look over to see the triumphant grin and the small coin purse the boy dangled tauntingly from his hand. He sat bolt upright and yanked his pillow off the bed to find only a vacant spot where the pillow had been.

"Ha!" Hector yelled, sitting up suddenly. "Yeh had a wager goin' on yerself, didn't yeh?"

There was nothing Cezar could do but burst into laughter along with the boy. "Yes," he said, finally catching his breath, "I had a wager going and managed to change the odds nicely as you can see there." He indicated the fair amount of coin Hector held.

"Ye cheated, Cezar," Hector admonished him affectionately, and then tossed the purse across to the older man.

"Yes, well, let us just keep that between us, yes?" Cezar said, tucking the purse under his pillow again.

There was a mischievous glint in the lad's eye as he spoke again. "And what do ye think my silence be worth, Mr. Silva?"

Cezar laughed aloud again. "You are blackmailing me, Barbossa?"

Hector shrugged innocently.

Cezar fished a coin out from under his pillow and tossed it to the boy with mock irritation. "See if I pull your sorry ass out of a puddle of vomit again," he snipped.

Hector pocketed the coin gleefully, enjoying tormenting his good friend. "And see if I let you set a wager on yerself again without getting' in on the deal!"

"Fair enough," laughed Cezar, and he doused the light.

The next few days were spent trying to find any information about either Mateus Barbossa or Manuel Rivero by any means they could think of other than talking to pirates. The days melded into two weeks before either one of them knew it.

Cezar made it a point to let Murdock know that both he and Hector would be willing to make the return voyage on the _Tempest_, but the decision dampened the boy's mood again as he realized they were rapidly running out of time before they departed for England.

Finally, frustrated by Hector's sulkiness and sympathetic to his disappointment, Cezar agreed that they would at least spend their last evening in _The Old Stag_, the tavern where they had first spotted the pirates. The condition was set that they were only going to talk to the barkeep and would not approach anyone who even remotely looked like a pirate.

McCreedy, the barkeep, knew an awful lot about the comings and goings of a lot of people, but he also knew that he should keep his mouth shut about a lot of that information as well. "Ye unerstan' I cannae be bumpin' ma gums aboot such things ta jus' aniwoon," he'd said kindly.

He genuinely did not know anything about Hector's father, although he confirmed that Rivero was indeed dead.

"Aye, run agroun' upriver by Morgan 'isself, th' bastirt," McCreedy said with a nod.

He'd poured them a couple of rounds and said nothing else that they found of use, and the evening passed thankfully, at least as far as Cezar was concerned, without the appearance of any known or suspected pirates.

On the return trip to Bristol aboard the _Tempest_, Hector was withdrawn and brooding again. Cezar left him to himself for the most part, knowing the boy couldn't stay in a bad mood indefinitely.

It wasn't until the third or fourth night that the boy finally appeared to eat dinner with him on deck, seeming slightly less sullen.

In an attempt to cheer the disappointed teenager, Cezar suggested that they have a practice session with the knife. Hector reluctantly agreed, but it wasn't long before he was beginning to smile and show a little enthusiasm, and eventually the moodiness dissipated for the remainder of the trip.

By the time they neared Bristol, Hector's mood had improved considerably, as had his knife skills.

Again, after the luck of a reasonably smooth crossing, Captain Wallace offered both Cezar and Hector more permanent berths aboard the _Tempest_. Both were inclined to take them, and were informed they would be needed to ready the ship again in a few weeks.

Hector's mood took an even greater upswing as he realized that he was going to have time to make the trip to Padstow and back. He was anxious to see his mother and tell her of his adventures and what little he'd learned about his father. He was also anxious to be able to provide some financial support for her out of the wages he'd earned from the two voyages.

Cezar said that he would meet Hector back in Bristol a day or so before they were expected at the _Tempest_, but upon hearing that his friend would just be biding his time alone in the city, Hector insisted that they journey to Padstow together.

"I do not wish to intrude upon your mother's home and hospitality," Cezar protested.

"Nay, ye won't be," Hector said confidently. "Besides, I'd like her to meet you."

Cezar opened his mouth to protest once more, and shut it again with a laugh as he saw the lad was not budging on this point. "Alright, _Patife_, I shall accompany you," he said.

"Ye won't regret it," Hector said cheerfully. "Me mother's the best cook, and she'll see that we're both properly fed for a change!"

Arriving in Padstow, Cezar had all he could do to keep up with the pace that Hector set as he climbed the road out of the village that lead to his mother's home.

The air was chilly, and the wind strong as it was now late in the fall. Hector crested the hill and could see from the road that his mother was outside, having just returned to the house from where she'd been gathering the last apples of the season.

She nearly dropped the basket when she realized who was striding across the yard toward her.

"Hector," she breathed quietly, saying a prayer of thanks that her son had returned and was safe.

She placed the basket on the ground and ran toward him, calling him out loud this time. "Hector!" she cried with delight, and she flung her arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely.

It only took her a moment before she realized he was a little taller than last she'd seem him several months ago. "Ye've grown," she said, placing a hand gently along his cheek.

"Aye, I suppose I have," he said gently in return. "I have so much to tell ye!" he said suddenly with great excitement, "but first there be someone ye should meet."

Beryan followed her son's gaze to where Cezar stood nearby, trying his best not to intrude on a mother's reunion with her son.

Hector made the introductions, and it was agreed that the men would fetch rabbits from the orchard, and Beryan went inside to set about making a pie.

After the remainder of dinner had been cleared away, Hector could barely contain himself long enough for Beryan to fetch dessert.

"Now ye'll see what I was talkin' about," Hector said proudly. He'd often told Cezar about his mother's cooking and her pie in particular.

Cezar finally sat back in his chair, knowing he couldn't possibly eat another bite. "Hector was right, Mrs. Barbossa," he said with a warm smile. "This is one of the most delicious dishes I have ever tasted. Obrigado –thank you."

Beryan had begun clearing the dishes, insisting that the two travelers stay put. "Ye be most welcome, Mr. Silva," she said.

"Ah, please," Cezar protested, "my name is Cezar."

"Fair enough, if ye call me Beryan," Hector's mother replied. "Mrs. Barbossa makes me feel a bit old," she said with a laugh.

The threesome sat up well into the night, talking about all that had happened to Hector since he'd last been home. Cezar finally excused himself and went off to bed so that Hector might have a little private time with his mother.

He told her about Mateus, but mostly went on about Cezar, and everything the man had done for him since they had met. Beryan made a mental note to thank the man herself when she had a moment, for looking out for her son so well.

"Oh!" Hector suddenly cried, breaking off in the middle of a sentence. "I brought this for you…." He went to his satchel and pulled out the purse with the money he had earned on his voyages. "This will make things better here," he said softly as he handed her the purse.

"Hector…." Beryan started a teary protest, but he cut her off.

"Nay, mother. This'll help. Take it fer me own sake," he said gently. He knew it would make things easier for Beryan for quite some time. "I'll bring ye more the next time I come home."

"So, ye'll be leavin' me again?" she asked. She'd known when he'd walked into the yard that he would.

"Aye, but I'll stay a while yet," he said quietly, kneeling at her side and taking her hand in his.

"Your friend is welcome to stay as well," she said, squeezing his hand.

"I thought ye'd approve of Cezar," Hector said, grinning. "Now mayhap ye'll not be worryin' about me so much."

She touched her son's face for a moment and then pushed the untidy hair out of his eyes. It was longer than it had been when he left. "Cezar or no," she said softly, " I will always worry about you, Hector."

The next few days passed more quickly than any of them would have believed they could have. Hector went off several times to hunt in the orchard with the ocean view that he loved, or to fetch fish for dinner down at the wharves, and Cezar made himself busy with some repairs around the small house in return for the hospitality that Beryan had shown him and the fine meals he had eaten at her table.

One afternoon Hector had gone off to pay a brief visit to Father Connor, who's health had been failing in the past months, leaving Cezar trying to re-hang the front door so that it sealed shut more snugly against the cold. He finally had it more level, and opened and shut it several times before he was satisfied that it was properly repaired.

Dusting off his hands, he turned around to see that Beryan had been watching him from the kitchen.

"It will be less of a draft now, yes?" he asked, taking the warm drink she'd just handed him.

"Aye, and I thank ye for that," Beryan said gratefully, indicating they should sit together at the kitchen table. "I also should be thankin' ye for looking out for my son the way ye have been….I am most grateful."

Cezar waved her off. "It is nothing," he said kindly, "you have a fine son, Beryan. I am most fond of him."

Beryan smiled warmly and then spoke again as concern began to replace the gratitude in her eyes. "Might I impose upon ye to keep an eye out for him this voyage again, Cezar?"

"You do not impose at all," he replied noticing that Hector must have gotten his mother's slate-blue eyes, "It will be my pleasure." He watcher her as she smiled and rose to gather together the things she would need for the jam tart she was going to make for dessert.

They spoke for a while longer before Cezar inquired as to what she was making.

"Jam tart," she replied from where she worked across the table, "if there's one thing that be true about my son, it is that he has a bit of a sweet tooth."

"He certainly likes your pie," Cezar agreed.

"True, that be his favorite," Beryan replied, "but it'll not take much to talk him into a second helping of this either."

"Or a third," Cezar said with a hearty laugh. "I've seen him eat!"

Beryan joined in laughing. "Aye, like most boys his age, he has the appetite of an ox."

"Yes, but not the same capacity for rum," Cezar added jovially, about to take a swig of his tea. He stopped short as he realized what he had just said.

"Did ye say, 'rum'?" Beryan asked, a note of displeasure slipping into her voice.

Cezar held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Let me explain……

Hector could hear laughter coming from the house as he crossed the yard to the front door. He could see through the window that Cezar and his mother were both sitting at the kitchen table, obviously engaged in a conversation of an amusing nature. He opened the door.

"…..and then I had to pull his backside up out of the barrel again!" Cezar was saying as he entered. Beryan had a hand over her mouth, unsuccessfully trying not to laugh at the story of her son's misadventure. Both looked up where the boy had just walked in.

Hector's eyes narrowed at Cezar. "Do I want to know who's backside ye be discussin'?" he asked suspiciously.

Cezar grinned broadly behind his beard. "More than likely, no."

After dinner, Hector stepped outside to stretch his legs while Cezar stayed behind to help clear the table. A few minutes later the older man joined him outside only to receive a half-hearted punch in the arm.

"Ye told me mother I was drunk on rum?" he asked in an incredulous whisper.

Cezar laughed, rubbing his biceps. "It is a funny story now, _Patife_."

Hector still didn't look like enough time had passed for him to find it amusing.

After standing together outside for a few minutes, Cezar finally spoke. "Your mother understands that for better or worse, you live each day more in the world of men, and less in the world of boys."

"Aye, that's true," Hector admitted, knowing how much it had taken for his mother to admit he was growing up and not hinder him from his voyage.

They stood together companionably for a few moments before Cezar spoke again. "You spent a lot of time telling me about your mother's cooking, Barbossa," he said, "but you never told me she was beautiful."

"Aye, the fairest lass in all of Padstow in her day, "Hector replied proudly.

Cezar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder fondly, amused at the difference in the age perspective. "Yes, well that day is still upon her, my friend."

Hector shot Cezar a piercing look as he suddenly realized that there was a good chance that it was not just Beryan's lovely blue eyes Cezar had been admiring.

Cezar laughed again, and held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Just an observation, _Patife_."

A wry grin finally tugged at the corner of Hector's mouth. "Aye, well ye best be keepin' yer observations to yerself."

"Of course," Cezar said.

The next week flew by quicker than the first, and sooner than any of the three of them wanted to admit, the last evening came before it would be time for Hector to leave with Cezar for Bristol.

Hector had run off to say goodbye to Father Connor, knowing he would likely not see the old priest alive again. Cezar had gone to the market and brought back a chicken that Beryan had requested.

Beryan herself was in the kitchen when he walked in, back turned to the door as she worked at peeling apples at the table.

"Here is the bird," Cezar said cheerfully, holding the dead chicken up by its feet.

Beryan pointed to the end of the table without looking at him. "There," was all she said.

Cezar put the bird on the end of the table, and glanced at what Beryan was doing. "Hector will be most pleased with that," he said. He watched her from behind as she merely nodded her head and he frowned a little.

"Do you need help?" he asked, taking a step closer.

"No." The answer was a strangled whisper.

A moment later Cezar could see that the woman's shoulders were shaking silently, and he understood that she was crying, but trying to hide the fact. He stepped next to her and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. "I will watch out for him, Beryan," he said softly. "I swear."

Her tears had made her nose a little red, but also made her eyes seem an even clearer blue than before when she turned to him with a look of distress at the thought of her son leaving again. A sob escaped her involuntarily, and Cezar placed his hands on each of her arms willing her to look at him. "I fear something terrible is going to happen to him, Cezar," she said.

"No harm will come to him if it is within my power to prevent it," he said earnestly. "I promise." The next moment she was in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably against his chest.

He held her for a long moment until her crying tailed off and then spoke softly into her hair. "That boy will be intolerable if he has to wait very long for that pie to be finished." He gently released her and smiled, picking up a knife and an apple as he made a point to stand discreetly at a more appropriate distance from her.

By the time Hector walked in, Beryan had dried her tears and did her best to remain cheerful throughout dinner. It was very late by the time they all decided that they should go to bed.

The men were up at dawn and ready to head for Bristol, and Beryan walked them out into the cold, gray, windswept yard. She gave Cezar a brave smile. "I thank ye again, with all of my heart," she said softly.

Cezar nodded, understanding what she meant but suddenly looked slightly taken aback as Beryan's lips brushed his cheek. "Take care of yourself, as well," she said, meeting his eyes for a moment and then turning to her son.

Anything she might have wanted to say remained unsaid as she took his hands, unable to fight back the tears any longer. She'd said what she'd needed to last night, and now, she grabbed him and clung to him as if she were never going to see him again. A moment passed, and she knew she should let him go.

Hector kissed her cheek and turned to walk away after the only three words she'd managed to whisper in his ear.

A/N: Now that we've spent some time setting up background and getting to know young Hector, it's time to start livening things up a little, and the best way I can think of to liven things up is with a pirate named Henry Morgan. ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

For the next two years or so, Hector and Cezar spent their time making the run from Bristol to Jamaica and back again with Captain Wallace. It was a decent paying berth, and even if they didn't get to Padstow every time they made port in Bristol, Hector was able to at least arrange to send a letter and money to his mother.

Each time they arrived in Port Royal, Hector spent less and less time looking for any trace of his father, becoming more convince that his father was dead and that he would probably never know the truth about why he'd never gone home.

By the time Hector had passed his sixteenth birthday, the seasoned young sailor that he had become bore little resemblance to the boy who had left Padstow, three years before. He had grown several more inches, and now stood eye to eye with Cezar.

Although not as ruggedly built as his Portuguese companion, the lad was lean and muscular from lots of hard physical labor, and now wore his hair, which he had never bothered to cut short again, bound in a leather cord at the nape of his neck.

The changes in his physical appearance were not the only ones that had taken place while Hector had been at sea. After three years of sailing with many of the same crew, Wallace, Smith, Murdock, Taylor, McNeil and others, his knowledge and experience had grown tremendously.

There was no one on the _Tempest_ that could scurry into her rigging faster, no one that was a quicker study at learning how to read sea charts and how to navigate, and no one that had such a hunger to learn _more_ despite what he'd already mastered. Hector had nearly been beside himself with excitement the first time Wallace had let him take a turn at the helm.

Now older, more confident and outgoing, Hector had learned what it took to get along with a large variety of personalities. Although prone to occasional bouts of moodiness, he generally got on well with other crewmembers and was well thought of by them in return.

On this particular trip, as the _Tempest _began to drop sail on her way into Port Royal, Hector stood at the wheel, taking instructions from the captain, and relaying them to the rest of the crew. Wallace had had little choice but to let the lad steer her into port on his own after mentioning it as a possibility once, and then being pestered by Hector endlessly for the last week.

He did an admirable job, and when the last anchor dropped and mooring lines were set, Captain Wallace proclaimed that the lad was a 'natural.'

Onshore later that evening, Hector spoke in a concerned way with Cezar as they entered _The Old Stag._ "So, what do we do now," he asked, "since the captain is sayin' that this'll likely as not be his last voyage?"

McCreedy had two measures of rum waiting for them by the time they made it to the bar, and they thanked him and settled into chairs at their usual table in the corner. Cezar took a long pull from his cup and sat back in his chair, thinking out loud.

"Perhaps, _Patife_, it would be best if we returned this last time to Bristol, and searched for another berth there," he said.

Hector shrugged and nodded in a quiet and unenthusiastic manner, running his finger around the rim of his drink absently.

"You do not like this idea?" It wasn't really a question. Cezar could tell that Hector was not thrilled with the thought of another voyage on the _Tempest_.

"It's gettin' tiresome," Hector said, glancing up briefly to see the reaction Cezar might have, and then back at where his finger still traced circles around the mug.

"Tiresome?" Cezar asked, sounding surprised. "You tire of sailing already? I thought you liked nothing better."

Hector's hand came to a stop over the top of the drink he'd been toying with. "I like nothin' better than being at sea," he answered, picking up the mug. "'Tis the Tempest that is becomin' tiresome fer me."

Cezar's brow wrinkled as he puzzled over what the younger man was saying. "It is good work, Hector. Not all ships are as well run as she is."

"That'd be exactly my point." Hector took a swig of rum before he continued. "It's work, an' hard work at that." He looked away across the room. "I've lost me love for the Tempest, Cezar, and I long fer something more interestin'."

"Interesting?" Cezar asked, now looking a little irritated. "We should both be grateful that we have had steady work on such a fine ship, Barbossa."

"That I have been," Hector said, "but no more. I'm quit of her fer good as of now."

Cezar leaned forward on the table and spoke in a softer, but more aggravated tone. "Just what do you plan to do, then?"

Hector met his gaze for a moment and then glanced back down at where he'd taken up running his finger around his drink again. He shrugged.

"You don't know?" Cezar asked, obviously getting a more upset. "That is a very good plan you have if you are going to quit the job you have now," he snapped.

His darkening expression was met by a cold steely-blue stare as Hector dropped his voice angrily. "I'll not be spendin' the rest of me life slavin' away on that bucket," he hissed. "And as fer what I do next, that'd be none of yer business." He finally broke eye contact, fuming, and busied himself with his drink.

"Fine."

Cezar stood up, now furious with Hector for acting irresponsibly, and hurt by what he'd just said.

"You do what ever it is that you find interesting then," he said sharply. "Good luck, Barbossa."

Hector made a decent show of appearing not to care that Cezar had just walked out of the tavern and left him sitting alone. He took another swallow of rum, and then a second, but couldn't let go of the fact that he was angry, or the fact that he also felt guilty about what he'd said.

He glanced about the room, which was starting to grow more crowded and noisy, and decided that he'd had enough of the place for one night.

Polishing off the remainder of his drink, he got to his feet and would have made his way out into the darkened street if it weren't for the fact that at that moment the Jamaican sailor he had seen in Hawkeye Jim Hartwell's company came in and sat down at the table next to him. Another man with longish dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee accompanied him.

Now curious about the two men, Hector ordered himself another round of rum and did his best to look like he was minding his own business while eavesdropping.

At first the two men chatted about this and that, and nothing that Hector found of any interest, but after the rum began to flow at their table, he heard the man with the goatee say something that grabbed his attention.

"So, Hartwell says Morgan wants a larger crew for the _Oxford_ this trip?" He spoke the King's English with a precise clipped accent.

"Aye," the Jamaican answered. "'E tink it best dis time, 'Arwell sey. 'Im learn aal sart a'tings 'bout de Spanish ship."

"Morgan's decided to do this for sure?" The Englishman asked.

The Jamaican nodded. " 'Im mek up 'im mind areddy," he confirmed.

Hector didn't realize that he wasn't doing a very good job looking inconspicuous, and it was only another moment before the man with the goatee spoke in his direction. "Is there a problem, lad?" His tone was casual, but annoyance was in his eyes.

Looking up sheepishly from his drink, Hector shook his head. "No, I was just leavin'," he said a bit nervously and stood up.

"Galang bout yuh business," the Jamaican snarled quietly.

Hector started to leave, but something caused him to turn back at that moment and speak to the men he had been listening to. Maybe it was partly the drive to find out something about his father; maybe it was the desire to do something more exciting than transport cargo on the _Tempest._ He took steps down a road that he would never return from that night.

"Wa' yah waan, bwoy?" The Jamaican asked dangerously as Hector stepped up to the table.

"My apologies fer listen' in on yer conversation," he began, trying to primarily address the Englishman, as he appeared to be the less hostile looking now that Hector had blatantly intruded on their conversation. "I couldn't help but overhear that ye be in need of more crew on yer ship."

The man with the goatee now looked a bit amused. "And you're interested, are you?"

Hector was, but before he said so he changed his answer just as his mouth opened. "I might be," he said, just a tad cocky.

The Jamaican shot him an irritated look, but his companion laughed out loud. "Have you ever even been on a ship, lad?"

"Aye, sir" Hector replied honestly.

"Really?" The dark haired man asked, still chuckling a little. "More than once?"

"Aye, sir. Three years I've sailed with Captain Wallace aboard the _Tempest_," Hector replied, hoping his answer would suffice.

"Impressive for a lad your age," the man with the goatee said, motioning for Hector to sit down, "but this is no merchant vessel that you'd be crewing."

He dropped his voice a little while the Jamaican watched Hector distrustfully. "This is a privateering mission to hunt a notorious Spanish ship. I think it's a little more dangerous than you'd be accustomed to."

The man's intent was to dissuade the lad from further inquiry, and he didn't realize that he couldn't have dangled a more fascinating carrot in front of the young man's nose.

"I can handle meself," Hector replied, earning another amused look from the Englishman. "I'm more than fair with a knife and a right fine shot."

"Are you, now?" the man said. "The men we are planning to hunt are seasoned sailors and fighters –some of the most fearsome Spaniards to sail these waters."

"I'm not afraid," Hector said evenly, trying to convince this man he was worthy.

The man with the goatee looked thoughtful for a moment and then spoke again. "Can you take orders well?"

"Aye, sir, and carry them out sharp," Hector said, perking up at the fact that it looked like he was actually being considered.

"Are you any good with a sword?" The Englishman asked.

"Nay, I've not handled one before," Hector replied, wishing he had a different answer, "but I'm a quick study."

"Well…" The dark haired man began.

"Ya caan't be serious," the Jamaican started to protest to his companion.

"Why not? If he learns as fast as he says, it might work out well," the other said, "and if he makes a nuisance of himself….well, I'll let you be the one to toss him overboard."

The Jamaican broke into a wide grin. "Now, dat's a good ideah!"

"So, it's settled then," the Englishman said with a nod, and then held out his hand to Hector. "Jedediah Gray, ship's quartermaster," he said, shaking hands, " and this is Judean Reece."

Reece merely nodded at Hector, his manner still cool.

"Hector Barbossa," the lad added, introducing himself.

"Well, Mr. Barbossa," Gray said, "report to the _Oxford_ first thing tomorrow morning. Mr. Hartwell will need to have a look at you before the decision is final."

"He's the first mate?" Hector asked, trying not to let on how excited he was to have the opportunity to meet the famous seaman.

"Aye, and he runs a tight ship," Gray said.

"Tightah den a Tortuga whore's aass," Reece added, taking a great swig of rum.

"Yes, so don't be late, Barbossa," Gray warned, giving Hector a meaningful look. "You don't want to give a bad impression to Mr. Hartwell."

Hector left the two men to their drinks with a promise to be prompt, but he didn't like the way Gray made that last statement. He had the feeling from the way he said it that making a bad impression on Hartwell might mean worse than just not making the crew of the _Oxford_.

After spending a restless night considering whether or not Hartwell would take him on as a member of the crew, Hector was up early and off to where he knew the _Oxford_ to be docked.

Hector admired the frigate as he walked alongside her, looking over her hull and sleek uniform deck. A fifth rate ship that carried 34 guns, she combined firepower, speed and maneuverability, and it was love at first sight for the lad.

He was gazing up into her rigging, when a voice spoke next to him.

"Good, I see that you decided to take my advice and arrive early to make a good impression on Mr. Hartwell."

Hector looked to where he was being approached by Jedediah Gray. "Aye, sir. I thought I'd best be early than late,"

"Good lad," Gray said, clapping Hector on the shoulder. "Mr. Hartwell is speaking with another at the moment, but as soon as he is finished, I'll introduce you."

Gray led him on deck, and Hector paced as he waited for Hartwell to finish with the business he was attending to so that he could get his inspection over. He couldn't really think of a reason, other than saying something completely stupid, that Hartwell wouldn't take him for the crew.

A moment later, Hector could hear Hartwell speaking to the person he had been dealing with as he opened the door to the great cabin and escorted them out. He was completely taken aback when Cezar exited the cabin.

Mr. Gray spoke quickly to Hector. "Let me just have a word with him and I'll be right back."

Hector took the opportunity to whisper urgently to Cezar as he approached. "What are you doing here?"

"I have put in for berth aboard the _Oxford,_ same as you," Cezar replied calmly.

"Ye'll not tell me this is coincidence, Cezar," Hector said, sounding somewhat irritated.

"Of course not," Cezar replied, now grinning behind his beard. "How else am I to keep one eye on you, never mind three?"

"I don't need you to look after me," the lad said, still irritated with Cezar.

Cezar shrugged. "Perhaps not, but I leave you alone for one evening, and already you try to sign yourself up with a crew of pirates."

"Privateers," Hector corrected him, "tis a Spanish ship we'll hunt on this mission…..if they'll yet have me."

"Yes, well, pirate or privateer depends a lot on your perspective," Cezar said in reply. "You would be surprised how much those two overlap."

Hector frowned at the thought, but was unable to finish considering what Silva said as Gray re-appeared and beckoned to him.

Cezar nodded and said nothing else as Hector went into the cabin.

Hartwell looked exactly as Hector remembered seeing him the first time in the _Old Stag,_ the night he had been there with Captain Teague; Patch over one eye and dressed in black waistcoat and white shirt, his black tricorn hat sat on one corner of the table he was seated at.

He was already scrutinizing Hector with his remaining eye as the boy approached the table.

"So, Mr. Gray tells me you want to join the crew," he began, skipping over the niceties of introduction and small talk.

"Aye, sir," Hector replied smartly.

"You've sailed for three years already with Captain Wallace aboard the _Tempest_?" he asked, watching the lad closely.

"Aye, sir, the run from Bristol and back."

"Good. I have here a letter from Wallace verifying the reliability of your character, Mr. Barbossa…."

Hector didn't know what he was talking about at first but refrained from saying as much.

"…and I take that as a good sign. Robert Wallace is an experienced sea captain and usually a good judge of character." He looked meaningfully at Hector. "Be glad he glad he took the time to write this, Mr. Barbossa. I might not have taken such a young crew member normally, but between the recommendation of your captain, and of your friend out there, I find myself in the position of welcoming you to the crew of the _Oxford_."

Hector thought he was going to burst from excitement, but kept it contained in front of Hartwell and Gray. "Thank you, sir. You won't regret it."

"We'll see," Hartwell said coolly. "I'd like you to report back at noon tomorrow, if that's quite convenient for you.

"Aye, sir. Noon sharp," Hector replied enthusiastically.

"See to it. The captain doesn't take kindly to waiting for his ship to be ready. Mr. Gray will see you out," he finished, dismissing the lad.

Outside the cabin, Gray congratulated Hector and advised him to be back late in the morning. "I know Hartwell said noon," Gray explained, "but it's my responsibility to have everything ready for Hartwell, and I like to have time to account for everybody and everything well before noon."

Hector left the ship and found Cezar waiting for him a short way away from the gangplank.

"Well?" Cezar asked.

Hector gave him an irritated look. "I could have done this on me own," he snapped as Cezar fell in beside him as he continued walking.

"Perhaps, but I don't think Hartwell was ready to take you without that letter from Wallace," Cezar said evenly.

"What do you know about the letter?" Hector asked, still irritated.

"I got one for each of us….and let me tell you how early I had to wake Wallace to get him to have them done in time this morning," Cezar continued. "I would have gotten them before we unloaded if I had known the first thing you were going to do was sign up with….."

"An' it matters to you…why?" Hector snapped, walking along briskly.

Cezar stopped in his tracks and grabbed the young man by the arm. "It matters to me, Hector, and that is all that needs to be said. You and I have been through a lot together in three years."

Hector wanted to yank his arm away, but Cezar's words softened his expression and merely shrugged. "Aye, that we have," he agreed. He finally let go of his anger.

"You may not need me to look after you so much," Cezar said, now beginning to smile, "but your mother will kill me if I let anything happen to you."

Hector gave him a wry smile back. "Oh, so that be the true reason ye signed up to keep an eye on me….yer afraid of me mother?"

"I am afraid of disappointing your mother," Cezar corrected.

"Ah," Hector replied smugly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Cezar asked, still amused.

"Nothin," Hector shrugged, starting to walk away again. He turned and spoke, walking backwards a few paces as he did, grinning. "But don't think I missed the fact that the last time we said goodbye she kissed you on the lips and not the cheek, Cezar." He laughed out loud when his older friend went bright red.

Cezar composed himself and punched Hector lightly in the arm. "Come, _Patife_, we must prepare for our new adventure today so that we are on time tomorrow. We don't want to keep the good captain waiting."

Hector realized at that moment what he had overlooked while being so focused on making a good impression on Hawkeye Jim.

Tomorrow he'd be setting sail on board the _Oxford_ with the infamous Captain Morgan.

**A/N:** For some reason, as I was writing the character of Jedediah Gray, I kept hearing Jeremy Irons in my head.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

**--**

Well before noon the next day, Hector and Cezar had their belongings stowed and had helped get the frigate ready to sail at a moment's notice. The first mate and quartermaster expected the captain sometime just after midday.

While the _Oxford_ was sleeker, faster and more heavily armed than the _Tempest_, Hector realized that he'd probably make the same comparison between the two crews. He was used to dealing with hardy seamen, and crusty old deckhands, but there was no doubt that although this group was well organized and disciplined, they definitely had more of an _edge _to them.

While Cezar noted the same thing and found it somewhat concerning, Hector seemed to think it made things more interesting.

Anxious to get a look at the infamous captain, as noon approached Hector periodically glanced over the side of the ship as he worked on deck, hoping to catch a glimpse. No one appeared to be approaching the ship at that point.

Mr. Gray came by at one point and had a look himself, wanting to be sure that everything was in order in time. A few minutes before noon, several other crew members, especially those who hadn't sailed with Morgan before, were doing the same as Hector and stealing surreptitious glances toward shore.

At a minute to noon, the anticipation could be felt across the deck, and Hector leaned against the railing to take another look. He was joined by an old sailor, who likewise leaned on the rail next to him, and gazed off toward shore toward where the captain was expected to arrive from.

He spoke as the two of them waited. "First time sailing with Hartwell, lad?"

Hector glanced at the older man standing next to him. He was perhaps an inch shorter than himself and had the weathered skin of an old salt who had been sailing a long time. His mustache and short beard were dark, but shot through with a fair amount of gray, as was his long hair that tumbled out from under a white bandanna bound around his head.

"Aye, that it is," Hector replied. "You?"

The old sailor shook his head. "No, I've sailed with Hartwell a fair bit –runs a tight ship, he does."

"So I've been hearin'," Hector said in agreement.

The older man glanced shoreward again, and not seeing anyone, continued to speak. "Seems like a lively bunch, this crew. They looked sharp getting the old girl ready this morning, wouldn't you say?" He watched Hector speak with quick dark eyes.

"Aye. I think the crew be anxious to make a good impression on the captain," he replied, also glancing shoreward.

"So, what's your story, lad? How'd you come to end up on the _Oxford_?" the weathered seaman asked.

"I overheard Mr. Gray speakin' about the trip with Mr. Reece at the _Old Stag_, and I asked to join up," the younger man replied.

"Ah, I see," the old salt said, looking thoughtful for a moment. "You're an experienced sailor are you?"

"Aye, three years aboard the _Tempest_," Hector answered, glancing at shore once more.

"Have you seen any action, lad?" the sailor asked, studying the young man's face.

"Nay, not yet, but I be a fair shot," Hector replied, "and Mr. Gray has promised to teach me to handle a sword."

The older man smiled for a minute, and then clapped Hector on the shoulder. "If Mr. Gray plans to teach you, then I wager you'll be quite the swordsman by the end of this voyage." He looked landward again, and then leaned off the rail with a sigh. "I guess it's about time the captain got his arse moving."

Hector looked a little taken aback at the man's comment as he started to turn away, and then turned back around toward the lad again. "Sorry, I didn't get your name, son."

"Barbossa. Hector Barbossa."

The older man held out his hand and shook Hector's firmly. "Pleased to meet you, Hector," he said, his dark eyes meeting the young man's. "I'm Henry Morgan."

A wry smile crossed Morgan's face, and he placed the black plumed hat he'd been holding in his hands on his head. It had gone unnoticed by Hector as they leaned against the railing, preoccupied as he was watching for Morgan's arrival.

"Welcome aboard the _Oxford_, Mr. Barbossa."

He turned and strode away, calling out to Hartwell across the deck, and leaving Hector staring after him hoping he hadn't just said anything stupid during their conversation.

Hartwell had gathered all the men on deck and called for silence, which he instantly got, setting the stage for Morgan to address the men. Evidently it was the captain's custom to do so before setting sail, and Hector and Cezar waited expectantly to hear what the man would say, along with the rest of the crew.

Having now donned an elegant red frockcoat along with the black feathered hat, the captain now presented a dashing figure that commanded the attention of all on board.

Morgan surveyed the gathered men for a moment in silence, and then spoke, placing a heavily booted foot upon a small crate as he did so. "Gentlemen," he began, standing in the bright Caribbean sun with a breeze tugging at the white ostrich plume that perched on his hat. "This is one of the finest days I can remember to undertake a voyage," he said, "and from what I have seen so far….."

At this point he looked all across the company again. "…..this appears to be one of the finest gatherings of sailing men that I have yet to have the pleasure of putting to sea with."

Here he paused for a moment, allowing for the cheer that rippled across the deck.

Hector, watching enthralled from a few feet away, was scrutinizing everything Morgan did and said with rapt attention. He wanted to understand exactly why it was the man had the reputation that he did, and as he listened to the speech, he realized that it was here in these first few moments on deck, that Morgan was banking on securing the loyalty of the crew, especially those who hadn't sailed with him before.

Morgan held one hand up, regaining silence on deck. "The mission we undertake today," he continued, " is one of vital importance." He paused for a second or two, making sure he had all eyes and ears riveted.

"As most of you know, our fair corner of the world has been visited as of late by a plague…a plague that has been wrecking havoc with our ships at sea, harassing our brothers hard at their honest day's work, and laying low unsuspecting citizens, including," he went on, a heavy measure of contempt now in his voice, "our fair women and innocent children."

He took his foot off the crate and began to pace in front of the crew, appearing agitated now. "This plague sails from Spain, gentleman, and her name is "_Conquistador_."

There was a hushed murmur through the men at the mention of the infamous Spanish ship. The reputation she had for murder, mayhem and plundering in the Caribbean was legendary, and it was well known to anyone familiar with Morgan's history that there was a long-standing grudge held between himself and the commander of the Spanish vessel, Don Alonso.

Morgan held up a hand again, and waited while the men simmered back down.

"I have vowed to the Jamaican governor, and aye, to King Charles, himself, that this plague will vex the colonies no longer!" he said, allowing more emotion to creep into his voice.

"We will set sail this fine day, on this finest of ships," he cried, dark eyes alight with fire, "and we will hunt down this menace!"

Another cheer went up from the crew.

"Find her we will, lads," he called out. "Find her we will, and when we do, we will send that wench and every last one of those bastards that sail with her to the depths of Davy Jones' locker!"

The roar that went up across the deck was nearly deafening, and Morgan allowed it to continue unchecked for a moment. At last he gestured for the crew to give him their attention again.

Speaking in a softer more thoughtful tone, he again addressed the crew. "It has come to my attention, much as it has in the past," he began, " that there are those who do not understand the _danger_, and the _sacrifice_ that will be required of us as we undertake to rid the seas of such a menace," he said. "There are those who do not understand the nature of war at sea…of the rules of the ocean, and would criticize me, and yourselves, as well."

A slight disgruntled murmur ran through his audience.

"These criticizers would say that we undertake such an _extreme risk_, not for the sake of eliminating a terrible menace that destroys our homes, but for the sake of financial gain…for riches and plunder and for trinkets of gold."

Another murmur went through the crew.

"Well!" Morgan cried, calling out loudly across the _Oxford's_ deck. "Let them criticize us, gentlemen! It will not sway us from our noble cause!" he cried angrily. "When we find the _Conquistador_, we will lay her to waste, but not before we are fairly compensated for our sacrifice!"

Here the crew cried out again in unison.

"Spanish gold will fill out pockets, lads, in return for the blood we spill to bring peace back to the Caribbean!" Morgan shouted.

The crew shouted more wildly than they had throughout Morgan's speech as he stepped up onto the crate.

"Now, are you with me, lads?"

Another deafening cheer went up.

"Yes?" Morgan called, his fiery gaze sweeping across the crew.

"AYE!!" came the deafening roar.

"Then let us hunt down this Spanish bitch together and blow her to hell!" Morgan cried.

He watched as the crew went wild in response. As Hartwell and Gray began issuing orders to cast off and weigh anchor, he stepped carefully off of the crate, and strode across the deck with determination set upon his face, and disappeared into the great cabin.

Hector had never heard anything so grand, he thought, as Morgan's speech, and he could readily understand why the man commanded the loyalty of his men. He glanced at Cezar who was standing next to him. "That was amazin'," he said, a touch of awe in his voice.

"Yes," Cezar replied, his manner cool. "It was a very pretty speech, indeed."

"Ye don't seem impressed, Cezar," the lad said, his tone a bit accusatory.

"Oh, I'm impressed alright," Silva said, "I'm impressed by how effortlessly Morgan just convinced a hundred men that plundering that Spanish ship was perfectly justifiable as long as it was in the name of 'peace in the Caribbean.'"

Hector grew a little defensive on behalf of his new captain. "It's customary fer privateers to be compensated fer their work," he said. "Why should this trip be any diff'rent?"

Cezar frowned, obviously not entirely pleased with the situation. "I'll say it again, Barbossa, and probably not for the last time. Privateering or pirating…whichever way you look at it, they are two sides of the same coin, my young friend." He clapped Hector on the shoulder.

"Let us get to work," he said, trying to stave off another argument with the younger man, "but consider this carefully, _Patife_….which ever side you look at the coin from, Morgan intends to put plenty of them into his pockets."

He walked away leaving Hector much to think about.

Nothing would have provided the change of scenery that Hector had desired more, than sailing aboard the _Oxford_ with Captain Morgan. Not that it really meant that much less work than sailing aboard the _Tempest,_ but somehow it seemed to him that voyage had more of a purpose.

Their bearing was east by north east, and the plan was to leave Jamaica and head north to skirt the Cuban coast, and then head northwest again to hunt for the _Conquistador_ in the region of the Bahamian islands. Evidently one of the things Morgan had learned about the Spanish ship, as Hector had overheard Judean Reece say in the _Old Stag_, was that she tended to hide out in that region when she wasn't actively seeking English ships to plunder.

The first few days out were fairly uneventful, but when a hundred men are packed onto a ship for any length of time, especially when newcomers are thrown into the mix and it would also be questionable which side of the privateer-pirate coin many of them belonged on, it doesn't take long before things get more interesting in a hurry.

The evening came when a disagreement had broken out between several of the crew over the fact that one of the newer crewmembers had been found with a couple of items that belonged to other sailors in his possession. Accused of stealing, he was brought on deck before Hartwell and Reece, who was the ship's ornery bo'sun.

Several witnesses bore out the story that the stolen items had actually belonged to the men that claimed to own them, and so it wasn't a difficult task for Hartwell to determine the thief's guilt.

Hector and Cezar stood next to each other, watching the little drama unfold, as did many of the ship's crew. Hartwell ordered the items immediately returned to their rightful owners, and decreed that the offender be given the punishment of a dozen lashes.

While many of the crew murmured across the deck in support of the first mate's decision, Cezar shook his head, obviously not entirely agreeing with Harwell's sentencing.

"What?" Hector asked, seeing the look on Cezar's face. "Ye look unhappy about the decision, Cezar. Should the man not be punished fer stealin' in yer book?"

"That is a heavy punishment for stealing a few trinkets," Cezar said, offering his opinion. "I agree he should be punished for stealing, but twelve lashes? That is a severe measure, indeed."

He could see Hector didn't really understand his point, and he hailed the quartermaster as he was walking past the two of them. "Mr. Gray," Cezar said quietly, "may I ask you a question?"

"Of course," Gray said pleasantly. After less than a week at sea he already knew that Cezar and Hector were worthy seamen, and had taken a liking to Cezar's easygoing, agreeable personality.

"What is the customary punishment for stealing among the crew?" Cezar asked, drawing Gray quietly into the conversation he and Hector were having.

"Well, Mr. Silva," Gray began, "unless it is for stealing from the ship's officers, the punishment is traditionally six lashes."

"And did this man steal from one of the officers?" Cezar asked, giving Hector a pointed look as he did so.

"I believe he did not, in this instance," Gray said in reply, understanding where Cezar was heading with the subject, "however it is the first punishment handed out to this crew by Mr. Hartwell this voyage." He gave Cezar a significant look.

"Ah, I see," Cezar said, knowingly. "Thank you for the explanation, Mr. Gray."

Gray nodded and walked away.

"I don't understand," Hector said, looking puzzled. "What does the fact that it be the first….." He trailed off, as understanding finally set in.

"Hartwell is settin' the tone fer the journey early," Hector speculated. "'Tis unfortunate fer the man on the recievin' end of the first punishment handed down, but it makes sense."

"It does?" Cezar asked, obviously appearing as if he didn't agree.

Hector nodded. "Aye, 'twill head off more trouble down the line, than if Hartwell'd been lenient from the outset. I wager there'll be fewer problems if the crew figures that Hartwell is goin' to be a right bastard straight out."

"I suppose you are right," Cezar said reluctantly, still looking as if he didn't entirely agree. "Especially with a crew this of this size and make up."

"Aye, 'tis how I would handle the situation were I in his place," Hector pronounced, elicited a little laugh from both Cezar and himself.

"Well remind me not to be the first one to go astray when you are captain," Cezar said, clapping Hector on the shoulder.

One other thing that Hector did make it a point to notice, was that while Hartwell was a constant presence among the men, making sure that things ran smoothly and without problems, Morgan, himself, made it a deliberate point rarely to get involved with the day to day running of the ship.

Although the Oxford sailed as a privateering vessel, it became obvious that Morgan had things arranged so that they were extremely structured, and had a firm hierarchy established on the ship, borrowing from, but not strictly adhering to concepts that His Majesty's navy utilized.

While it would be apparent to anyone that took time to give it a second thought that there was little in the way of democracy onboard, Morgan walked a very fine line with the way he handled the crew, making them feel included in decisions that had long before been made, and convincing most of them that they were in fact an important part of the way he decided things.

Hawkeye Jim Hartwell took on the role of Morgan's enforcer, so to speak, and it allowed Morgan to speak softly but carry a big stick in the form of swift justice that was meted out by Hartwell. Morgan, meanwhile, remained blameless and popular with the crew, and the contrast between the two men only served to reinforce each of their positions; a strategy that the two men had long found immensely effective and suited well to each of them.

It was a strategy that suited them well the next morning, when the man who had stolen from the crew was strung up firmly before the mizzenmast, and Hartwell presided over the whipping. Morgan observed things carefully from a distance away at the margins of the gathered men, standing only a foot or two away from where Hector was watching as well.

When the bo'sun, Reece, and another stepped forward to strip the thief of his shirt, Hector thought he heard the captain speak, and turned his attention smartly toward him. "Sir?" he asked.

Morgan seemed to not understand why the lad was addressing him at first, and then realized he'd heard the comment he'd made under his breath and took it to mean he was being spoken to. "Ah, Mr. Barbossa, sorry, I was speaking to myself."

"Apologies, Cap'n," Hector said with a nod, feeling stupid for thinking Morgan might actually have been addressing him.

Morgan took a step closer to Hector. "No need for apology, Barbossa," he said pleasantly. "I was merely commenting on the fact that this is obviously not this man's first time in trouble on board a ship." He indicated with a nod in the direction of the thief that Hector should look.

Upon closer inspection Hector saw, like Morgan had, that there were already multiple scars along the man's back that told the tale without a single word.

Morgan spoke again. "This man warrants closer scrutiny, wouldn't you think?"

Hector met the captain's steady searching gaze, realizing that it wasn't just a rhetorical question, and that Morgan was actually expecting an answer.

"Aye, Cap'n," Hector said respectfully. "I'll wager from the number of stripes he bears that stealin' would not be his only offense, and that mayhap it'll not be his last."

"I concur, Mr. Barbossa," Morgan said, nodding and turning to where the bo'sun let the first lash snap smartly across the man's back.

Hector flinched at the sound, and the fact that a smattering of blood accompanied the retreat of the lash, and fell to the deck between the bo'sun and the thief. The man had cried out with the blow, but not nearly to the extent that he'd expected. It gave credence to the theory that the man had been through this multiple times before.

Morgan folded his arms across his chest and huffed as the next blow fell, speaking as much for his own benefit as Hector's.

"It pains me to resort to such uncivilized methods to maintain order and civility. Would that it never came to this, but alas," he sighed, "there are often necessary evils that must be endured to achieve greater good, Master Barbossa."

"Aye, sir," Hector said, acknowledging the words Morgan spoke and taking them to heart, as the rest of the punishment was delivered across the deck from where he stood on the outskirts of the rest of the crew with the captain.

--


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

**--**

A week later, after the _Oxford_ had reached Cuba and began to skirt the coast, Hector found himself looking for Jedediah Gray one morning when there was only a light and baffling wind, and the ship threatened to sit idle and stall their journey.

Nothing could be more tedious than waiting for the wind to be in their favor again, and boredom and frustration could negatively affect a crew that was more prepared for action. Hector had previously experienced being caught in such a manner, and sitting becalmed waiting for mother nature to cooperate again tended to make him anxious and irritable.

Wanting to make a pre-emptive strike against boredom, he decided to take Gray up on his offer to teach him about using a sword.

"Of course," Gray had replied earlier, thankful to have something else to keep himself occupied as well. He had agreed to meet Hector on deck a short while later and begin his instruction.

Gray arrived on deck a few minutes later with his own sword in hand and another that he'd taken from the ship's hold, and he called Hector over. "Before I hand you this blade," Gray said, "I am going to tell you one or two things that will be the most important I can teach you."

Hector nodded, anxious to take the sword, but also desiring to learn as much as he could.

"Barbossa, you must remember that swordplay is not by any means 'play'. It is very serious business whenever you draw a sword," Gray said solemnly. "Swords were designed for no other purpose but killing."

"I understand," Hector replied, listening intently.

"Winning a duel is not like winning a prize, Hector, and there is no second place. First place is life, second place is death. Am I making my point?" Gray asked, still very serious.

Hector nodded solemnly. "Aye."

"That one concept will count for a lot – remember each and every time you draw your sword," Gray said, meeting the lad's eyes. He finally smiled. "Now, let us begin."

He handed the sword he held to Hector and opened his mouth to speak again, but Hector, from where he'd been admiring the blade, frowned slightly and spoke first.

"Mr. Gray, this be a right dull blade," he said, running his thumb along the blunt edge of the weapon.

"Yes, and so it shall remain until I feel you are ready for a real one," Gray said. "I prefer to keep all my limbs intact until at least after I have managed to teach you some small amount of skill, Mr. Barbossa."

Hector, while feeling a tiny bit cheated initially, understood that it was probably a wise move on Gray's part.

"All right then, two rules if I am going to spend my time teaching you," Gray continued. "First, we will work on this every day, and as long as you are not currently on duty or following orders from either Mr. Hartwell, or the captain himself, you will meet me for practice. The first time you decide that you won't show up for practice, I will be finished instructing you."

Gray said it with no malice, just as a matter of fact.

Hector nodded. "I'll be there."

"Second," Gray went on, "you will follow each instruction I give you to the letter, without complaint. There is very little to learning the sword that is flashy or glamorous, Barbossa, and you will find much of this training repetitive and boring, especially at first."

"I'm ready to learn, Mr. Gray," Hector said in a determined way, "and I will follow yer rules as ye request."

"Very good," Gray replied, amused at the young man's solemn response. "Now, let us begin. He stood up and faced Hector and held out his hand. "Let me see your weapon," Gray said.

Hector handed it back to him, and was rewarded with a sound smack across the back of his hand with the flat of the blade in an instant. He yelped and shoved his smarting hand under his other armpit and hopped around cursing.

"Bloody hell...."he swore under his breath and then whirled on Gray, who was watching Hector with a trace of amusement. "What be the point of that? Ye nearly broke me hand!" he cried, now scrutinizing the welt that was rising across the back of his fist.

"Two points, actually, Barbossa," Gray said, handing him back his weapon. "First, maintain possession of your weapon at all costs. If you are unarmed, a fight becomes a murder in rather short order."

"And the second?" Hector asked, still shaking his stinging hand out.

"Oh, that was to get your first injury out of the way," Gray said with a subtle smile. "If you seek to learn the sword, Barbossa, you will be injured and you will be cut. Get used to the idea. Now, you won't be as tense anticipating your first bruise and you'll be able to relax more."

"Terrific," Hector said under his breath.

"Which brings me to the next point," Gray said, "relaxing. While I completely understand that you may be eager to jump into this, if you don't stay loose and maintain your focus, you will tire more easily, move slower and become a sitting duck."

"Do ye intend to rap me knuckles with a dull blade again this mornin', Mr. Gray?" Hector asked.

"Not intentionally, no," Gray answered.

Hector nodded once. "Good, then 'twill be easier fer me to relax."

Gray laughed at the young man's smart remark. "Understood, Mr. Barbossa. Shall we begin?"

Hector spent the next hour or better working on the initial fundamentals of handling a sword, and Gray began teaching him how to focus on his breathing and balance, and keep aware of what else was going on around him.

"Who just walked by your left side?" Gray asked, as Hector once again went to draw the sword and step into the practice stroke Gray had shown him. Unsure who it had been, Hector glanced to his left, and yelped aloud as his teacher rewarded him with another rap across the knuckles of his hand that gripped the sword handle. The blade clattered to the deck, and Hector shook his hand out again, cursing as he examined the second bruise that was forming next to the first.

"Merda!" Hector cried, adopting the Portuguese swear that Cezar had often used. "I thought you said ye'd not rap my knuckles again!"

"With the dull blade, Barbossa. I believe mine is the sharp sword?" Gray said, a small but wry grin crossing his face. He waited for the younger man to compose himself again. "You need to pay attention to what is going on around you at all times. In battle, that man on your left might well be an enemy, and you certainly wouldn't want him getting that close."

Hector nodded, understanding that Gray was trying to drive home a very important point, and do it in such a way that he wouldn't soon forget it.

"You've done well, this morning, Barbossa," Gray said. "Shall we plan on tomorrow morning again?"

"Aye, sir. I be most anxious to get through another lesson," Hector replied. He was completely thrilled with his first lesson, and couldn't wait for the next session with Gray.

The following morning, as the _Oxford_ still sat becalmed waiting for the return of a wind of any sort, Hector again met Gray on deck to have another lesson. Gray again emphasized to the younger man, the importance of staying relaxed, and focused, and paying attention to what was going on around him. For an hour Gray corrected Hector's technique, discussing staying balanced and composed. The lesson went well again, and Gray was pleased that the lad's interest seemed genuine and his commitment real.

By the third morning, a fair westerly wind had arisen, and the _Oxford _resumed its voyage, much to the relief of all on board. Hector met with Gray again once they were underway, and listened to the wisdom the older man had to impart during their lesson again.

"Maintaining the advantage is the mark of a skilled swordsman, Barbossa," Gray began the morning by saying. "Even if you are facing a weaker opponent, you must always strive to maintain the upper hand. You never know when a lesser swordsman might just get lucky, or change the equation by something like bringing in a second fighter."

"Or a gun," Hector observed. "Not much a sword can do against a gun."

"You'd be surprised, Barbossa," Gray said seriously, "if you maintain your focus, and keep your wits about you, sometimes you might even come out with the upper hand against a gun, but that we will discuss much later."

"Now," Gray said, ready to start the lesson, "I want to work on your technique for defending yourself. It is important that you keep your elbow relaxed, and not overextend your reach. If you keep your arm in closer to your body, and extend your sword and not your arm toward your opponent, you place yourself in less danger."

Gray demonstrated in a walk through what he meant, showing Hector how easily he could injure or disarm the lad if he strove too hard to keep his enemy too far away.

"Don't fret too much about your opponent getting in too close, and keep your sword here," Gray said, showing Hector how to assume a middle position, with the sword running from his waist to the top of his head.

"This is a good position to start with, and allows the combatant a great deal of flexibility both for defense, and offense," Gray continued.

Hector was busy trying to take in every bit of advice that the quartermaster gave him, and didn't notice that his lesson was starting to draw more attention on deck. A small group had gathered to watch nearby, while across the deck, standing together, Morgan and Hartwell were observing what Gray was teaching the younger man.

"This lad already shows some promise," Morgan remarked casually, in a quiet voice that only Hartwell could hear. "Mark my words if Gray doesn't have him sparring before this trip is finished."

Hartwell nodded, scrutinizing the lad in a calculating way. "That may well be true, if he takes after his father to any degree."

Morgan nodded, watching the lesson and looking thoughtful for a moment. "Have you mentioned anything to the boy?" he asked quietly, not taking his eyes off Hector and the quartermaster.

Hartwell narrowed his one-eyed gaze. "About his father? No, I thought it best not to….complicate things," he said coldly.

Morgan nodded in agreement. "I would prefer that we leave it that way, James."

Hartwell nodded his acquiescence silently, and returned to watching the lesson across the deck.

--

The days turned into several weeks, as the _Oxford _began scouring the waters near the southern most Bahamian islands, searching for any sign of the _Conquistador_. Hector was not only meeting Jedediah Gray for a lesson every day, but was spending his free waking time practicing as much as he could.

He even managed to recruit Cezar to help him polish his newest skills, and Cezar agreed to do so as long as Hector continued to use the practice sword.

"When you are ready to change that blade for a real one, that will be the time when I think it would be best for me to play it safe, and not take any chances that you might remove some part or other I'd care to have use of in the future," Cezar said wryly.

"Aye, well, that all depends on which parts ye plan on usin' and fer what purpose," Hector said, returning the smile as he pointed the blade at Cezar teasingly. He had covered a lot of ground recently giving Cezar a difficult time about the obviously blossoming romance with Beryan.

Two weeks at sea soon turned into three, and the _Oxford_ had seen not a trace of the Spanish ship that they were looking for. Aware of the fact that the men would soon be getting bored, and irritable while waiting for some action, Morgan decided to double back along a different route, searching for the _Conquistador_ while heading back to Jamaica, thinking that if the trip were unsuccessful, they might continue on to Nassau Port before searching elsewhere.

He had been waiting to hunt down the Spanish vessel and her captain for a long time, and at this point he was willing to bide his time while keeping his crew happy, so they would be ready and willing when he needed them.

--

During the next few weeks at sea, Jedediah Gray was becoming increasingly impressed with the progress that Hector was making already with the sword. He had asked the lad to work on what he'd learned each day, but he never expected that the teenager would be so dedicated to his pursuit of mastering the weapon.

If Gray had him do something over to see if it could be done better, Hector would insist on repeating exercises not only until they were to Gray's satisfaction, but until they were perfect. There were actually lessons when Gray had to admit himself a little worn out from trying to meet the young man's demand for more instruction.

Finally the day came when the _Oxford_ was not far out of Nassau, that Jedediah decided to allow Hector to spar a bit with him on deck.

A little impressed with the fact that he'd managed to make such dramatic progress, and had been likewise impressing Mr. Gray with his quick improvement in skill, Hector faced off against his mentor for the first time, just a little cocky.

Not liking the fact that the lad was starting to become a little full of himself this early in the game, Gray decided to teach him a lesson as they faced each other and readied to draw their weapons. "You'll want to be ready to defend yourself right away," he warned.

Hector smile at him. "I'll be ready," he said, just a tad overconfident.

Gray nodded and instantly went for his sword, and before Hector had barely managed to draw his own weapon, had, in one fluid movement, drawn his sword and swung up to cut under Hector's barely raised arms, threatening to cut into the lad's elbows from underneath if he so much as moved.

Undaunted about being outclassed in the first three second, Hector's eyes went wide at the attack that came upon the very drawing of Gray's sword. "What be that move?" he asked, now no longer interested in the duel. "I've not seen anything as fast as that before. Ye had me nearly before yer weapon was drawn," he said with awe in his voice.

"That comes from a long study of battojutsu," Gray replied. "It takes much practice, indeed."

"Batto…?

"Battojutsu," Gray replied as the two men relaxed their stances to talk. "It is the Japanese art of drawing the sword. If done correctly, you may defend yourself or attack upon the drawing stroke of your weapon, often decisively ending a conflict within the first seconds of a duel."

Hector nodded, still obviously impressed. "I can see that ye would have taken at least one of me arms off if we had been in a real fight. I'd call that decisive," he said. "Can ye teach me this…battujutsu?"

"If you wish," Gray replied, impressed that his student would be interested, and hadn't been put off by his three- second loss of the first duel. "Shall we continue?"

"Aye, if ye'll yet show me that smart move at the end of the lesson," Hector replied, grinning at his teacher.

"Very well," Gray said, and faced off with the young man again.

An hour later, Gray was exhausted from working with the overzealous young Barbossa, and he had to beg off teaching any more for the day. "It'll get you no further along if you kill me with exhaustion instead of your sword, Barbossa. Shall we pick up again tomorrow?"

Hector, thrilled with the new technique that Gray had shown him, reluctantly agreed.

Although by that point in the _Oxford's_ voyage there had been no sign of the _Conquistador,_ and Hector had not had the opportunity to use a sword yet in real combat, another adventure arose for the lad that would prove to be equally as interesting.

Not as decadent as Tortuga was reputed to be, Nassau was a town that more than tolerated pirates, and she had a reputation for being a fair bit rougher around the edges than Port Royal.

When the _Oxford_ made port with the intent of letting the crew blow off some steam before heading out to search for the Spanish ship again, Hector begged Jedediah Gray to let him hang a real sword at his hip, reluctant to go unarmed into town.

After much deliberation, Gray agreed, but only after making Hector promise not to draw his weapon unless it was a matter of life and death.

When he went ashore with Cezar, intent on looking for a suitable tavern, there was probably a bit more swagger in his step as he strode off Morgan's ship with a fine blade at his side. Cezar had all he could do not to laugh, and let the lad enjoy his moment.

While much of the crew was doing the same as the two companions were, it was obvious that many of the men had a different priority in mind, and opted to pay a visit to some of the other establishments that were in town. While Hector had certainly heard plenty of sailors banter about the women at port, he hadn't really paid much attention up until that point as to how much of a priority his shipmates made a visit to the whorehouses.

Cezar watched as Hector kept noting how many of their crew were headed in the other direction. "Evidently many of our crew have spent a bit too much time alone or at sea," Cezar said to the younger man.

"Aye," Hector said, brow furrowing as it often did when he was deep in thought.

"Many men find the need, especially if they are not married, _Patife_," Cezar explained, "although some do even if they are."

Hector glanced sideways at Cezar as they walked. "Cezar, I've made the observation that it's not been like ye to pay a visit to the ladies yerself in all the time I've known you."

Cezar felt his face getting a bit warm. "Well," he said, trying to offer an explanation, "it certainly is not for lack of interest in the ladies."

Hector grinned. "Aye, I know that! 'Twouldn't be like you to not notice a grand pair of tits, now would it?"

Cezar smiled back. "No, it wouldn't."

"And I know right well how much ye've had yer eye on my mother," Hector accused his friend.

"Hector," Cezar said solemnly, "I hold your mother in the highest regard….."

"I know," Hector replied reassuringly. "There'd not be anyone else I know that I think would be a better match fer her, Cezar. Yeh already know that you have my blessing."

"That pleases me," Cezar said, "and now you understand why I chose not to pursue, how shall I say it…..other pleasurable company? It would be disrespectful to Beryan, Hector."

Hector nodded, understanding that his friend was being as honorable as he could towards his mother, and it was the reason that Hector approved of the relationship for both of them.

--

**A/N:** Simplistically defined, Battujutso is the art of drawing and cutting in one fluid motion for the purpose of ending a conflict with one decisive cut. Several other variations of the art emphasize techniques for defending oneself in everyday life, rather than on the battlefield, and drawing the sword from sitting postures is the focus.

My favorite scene in all three movies is still the duel between Barbossa and Sparrow in CotBP. When Jack finishes his speech about being dishonest and tosses the sword to Will, he goes after Barbossa who is actually sitting down. Barbossa then stands, and then draws his sword and block's Jack's first swing all in one move, hence the inspiration for Gray's unique training.

My profile page has a link to a beautifully done demonstration video if you are interested. Notice what some of the techniques would do to you if the combatants were moving up to speed and not pulling their punches, so to speak.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

--

Hector appeared thoughtful as the two companions managed to find a small table that suited their requirements in a local tavern, and continued the conversation they'd been having along the way.

"Mayhap I could ask you a question, Cezar? Would ye answer me plainly?"

"I'll be as straightforward as I can," Cezar replied honestly. "What is it you would ask?"

Hector frowned, not sure how to go about asking what he wanted to, or whether or not he should, but he was curious and knew Cezar would probably understand. "Cezar, how old might ye have been when….when ye….the first time…."

Cezar understood where the conversation was headed. "I was just about your age, _Patife_," he said kindly, knowing the young man was at the age of discovering that men and women are very different and that it could be a wonderful thing.

"Oh."

Cezar smiled at the fact that his young companion was at a lost for words. He'd long suspected this conversation might fall to him since the he was, by default, the closest thing Hector had to a father. Not that he would have to spend much time explaining the how's and why's – living on a ship with dozens of sailors provided enough graphic detail of the how's and where's and when's and why's for any nearly seventeen year old lad to come away with a pretty fair idea of what sex was.

Cezar spoke softly after taking another pull at his rum. "Two words of advice, my friend," he said as Hector met his gaze again from across the small table. "Do not rush into things unless you want to –there will be a lot of pressure on you from your shipmates, especially with this crew I'll wager."

"And what be yer second bit of wisdom?" Hector asked, teasing Cezar a little.

"Respect, Patife. Always treat the women you deal with, whether they are sweethearts or working girls, with respect. It will keep you out of a lot of trouble."

Hector quirked an eyebrow up at Cezar.

Cezar sighed. "Hector, women and love and sex are very, very thorny matters. You will understand this sooner than you think."

Hector sat back with a bit of a smug air. "I've heard it explained well enough to understand that it not be all that complicated," he said wryly.

"Yes, well, trust me. On the surface it may seem very simple, but once you lose your heart to a woman…..things change. Hector, women are more complex than most men, and life with them can be complicated at times," Cezar tried to explain.

"So, why do men bother?" Hector asked, jokingly.

Cezar grinned. "That, Patife, is a question that men have been trying to figure out the answer to since the dawn of time. I wager you that by a year from now, you understand what I'm saying much better than I could ever explain it."

The lad shrugged, took another swig of rum, and then stood. "Be back," he said, and left through the back door of the tavern with the intent of answering a call of nature.

What set things in motion for Hector's adventure was the chance he happened upon three men that we in the company of a young woman, and were quite obviously not treating her in the respectful way that he had just been discussing with Cezar. He caught sight of them dragging her into an alleyway while she struggled in vain to throw them off.

His first logical thought was to run for more help, but when he heard her scream once, all logic went out the window, and he dashed across the street and into the alley. There he found two of the men handling the woman roughly, holding her still for the third who was tearing at the front of her dress. Unable to scream again because one of her assailants had a hand clamped firmly over her mouth, the girl's eyes were wide with terror, and met Hector's as he came skidding to a halt several feet away.

He realized as all four occupants of the alley looked his way that he had no idea exactly what he was going to do to help.

The man in front snarled at him and put a hand on his sword. "Yeh'll mind yer own business if yeh know what's good fer ya," he spat.

Hector thought it was very good advice, but unfortunately was not inclined to leave the girl to what appeared to be a very unpleasant fate. He tried to keep his voice from quavering too much as he challenged the woman's attackers.

"I'll keep to me own business, if ye let the lady keep to hers," he said, not believing what was coming out of his mouth.

"'Zat so?" Man number one asked, slowly sauntering closer to Hector while his two companions laughed where they still held back the girl. "Yeh inclined to do sommat about it if we don't?"

"Aye," Hector replied, wishing he could come up with something a little more smart and intimidating, but at a loss as he realized this might count as a life and death situation in short order. The other man drew his sword in a slow and deliberate manner, and Hector reflexively put his hand on his own sword, thankful that it was a sharp one.

'Breathe, relax,' he tried to tell himself, echoing what Jedediah had been telling him all along. He knew well enough that he never should have put himself in this situation, but it was too late to do anything about it now.

The girl's assailant grinned wickedly at the younger man standing in the alley alone in front of him, and raised his sword menacingly, hoping to chase Hector off.

Hector stood his ground, trying not to let his hand shake too noticeably. He became aware of the fact that he was shaking as much from anger as adrenaline as he spoke to the man once more. "You don't want to be doin' that," he said, knowing that it was about to come to blows. He hoped the girl at least thought well of him for trying after he was cut down.

"Really?" The man's arrogant grin grew even broader, and he reached back with his sword, intending to strike at Hector, who hadn't drawn his weapon yet.

Reacting instantaneously, Hector yanked his own weapon and swung it up and under the man's arm in one swift move, like he'd practice so many times the past weeks with Gray, only this time he didn't pull his swing. The scream that the man let out as his sword fell to the ground, still clutched in the hand that had been severed from his arm, was blood curdling, and he fell to the ground clutching at the stump of his elbow, pouring blood into the street.

No one was more surprised at what had happened than Hector, and the fact that he had pulled off the move without being run through came as shock to him. He stood there dumbfounded, staring at the man's arm in the street, thinking he might actually be ill.

Hector was not the only one shocked by what had just happened. The injured man's two companions, never having seen anyone draw a sword and do so much damage so quickly, decided to relinquish their prize and make a hasty retreat.

Finally coming to his senses and a full grasp of what had just taken place when he caught sight of the two others moving, Hector planted his feet and held up his sword again. "Take this filth with you," he ordered, getting immediate compliance from the intimidated cohorts as they grabbed their bleeding companion and dragged him off.

Hector finally lowered his sword, feeling that his hands were still trembling, and praying that he wasn't going to vomit in front of the girl who still stood wide-eyed and huddled against the wall. He risked a glance at her. "Are ye harmed?"

The young woman, a bit dirty and ragged from the way she'd been handled, was unhurt otherwise, and shook her head.

"Good." Hector said, now walking closer to her, mostly to get away from the arm that still lay in the street holding the sword. "Yeh sure?" he asked, watching the way she still leaned against the wall.

"Yes," she breathed unsteadily, apparently still rattled by what she'd been through.

She gave Hector a look that he couldn't quite place, but definitely found that he liked, and he straightened up a bit, buoyed by the fact that he had just impressed this girl. "Ye'll come to no harm now," he said, a bit cocky after his success. "Have ye a name?"

Still breathing a bit raggedly, the girl was still trying to compose herself, and looked like she wasn't succeeding very well. "Christine," was all she managed.

"Christine," Hector replied, trying out her name. "Well," he said, switching his sword to his left hand and offering her his right, "Hector."

He was struck dumbfounded again as Christine opted not to shake his hand, but flung herself at him and wrapped her arms around his neck, finally breaking into tears at that moment. "Thank you, Hector," she breathed between sobs.

Unsure about what had just happened, and at a loss as for what to do, Hector did nothing for a moment, and then finally let his hand rest lightly against Christine's back.

She started saying something else through her tears about being grateful, and how he'd probably saved her from being murdered, but he heard very little of what she actually said as he was now aware of just how tightly she had pressed herself against him.

Having not embraced another woman besides his mother this closely, he discovered very quickly that this was a completely different sort of thing altogether.

"…me home?" Christine had said, now leaning away from him as she wiped the last of her tears from her face. She looked back up at him questioningly.

"What did ye say?" Hector asked awkwardly, realizing he'd been paying more attention to how soft she'd been while pressed up against him than her question.

"I don't mean to impose," she said, now taking as step back to a more appropriate distance, much to Hector's disappointment, "but might I ask you to walk me home? It's not far."

"Of…..of course," Hector finally said. He realized after a minute that he was probably grinning stupidly at her and straightened back up, sobering as he did so. "I'd be yet delighted to, Miss Christine," he said, kicking himself mentally.

He went to sheath his sword at that moment, and realized that it was stained with blood. Looking about him for some grass to clean it off on, he found nothing but the arm laying in the street, and wincing a little, wiped the blade clean on the severed sleeve.

"There," he said, still queasy but trying to make it seem as if he did this every day. He slipped the blade into the scabbard at his hip.

Hector accompanied the girl out of the alley, and to his surprise and delight, she slipped her hand under his arm and hung onto him to steady herself. He looked down at her when they stepped into the better lighting of the main street, and realized she had the bluest eyes he had ever seen. He hadn't noticed them in the darkened alley, nor had he noticed the fact that her hair was the color of spun gold.

He would have continued to stare mutely at her if it weren't for the fact that he heard his name yelled across the street.

"Barbossa!" Cezar called from where he stood in the doorway of the tavern.

Hector cringed, thinking that Cezar would admonish him in some way for being gone so long, but he watched as the older man merely pointed at the door of the tavern, indicating that he could meet him in there later.

Cezar knew better than to say anything about being worried about Hector once he saw the girl, and he knew that the lad was going to have a very interesting story to tell about how he managed to end up with that petite beauty on his arm in the past twenty minutes. He had the distinct impression at that moment that it was about to be well under a year when the young man discovered the joys and the frustrations of women.

--

Two hours later, Hector found his way back to the tavern, and was surprised to find that Cezar was not alone at their table. Jedediah Gray, Judean Reece and Morgan himself had joined his friend while he had been absent.

"Ah, Master Barbossa," Morgan called out jovially, drawing out a chair next to himself for the young man, "how are you this fine evening?"

"I be quite well, sir," Hector said sitting down. He glanced around the table noticing that the others seemed to all be doing their best not to be smiling.

Gray signaled the barkeep for another round of drinks to be brought to the table, and turned back to where Hector had sat down, scrutinizing the young man carefully. He spoke after a minute in a forced even tone.

"Mr. Barbossa, do I want to know why you have blood on your shirt?"

Hector glanced down quickly, and realized that he must have been splattered with blood during the duel, and had been too preoccupied speaking with Christine on the way to her family's home to notice. He knew by the way that Gray was looking at him that his mentor was beginning to suspect that he might have been using his sword for more than show.

The barkeep arrived and passed out the round of drinks, and Hector tried to busy himself with his rum inconspicuously. It didn't work.

Morgan took a swig of his own drink and then spoke again. "I'll wager there's an interesting story here, gentlemen."

Cezar, who had evidently said something to the rest about having seen Hector last in the company of a young woman, spoke up. "Care to share where you've been for the past two hours with us?"

"Not really," Hector said, somewhat sheepishly.

Morgan wouldn't let it drop. "You must share this adventure of yours with us, Barbossa," he said cheerfully.

Hector looked around the table at his four companions, knowing by the way they looked that he wasn't getting out of this any time soon. He sighed, resignedly, and took a fortifying draught of rum before launching into the story of what had taken place since he left Cezar in the tavern.

When Hector had finished telling the story of how he had met Christine, Cezar finally piped up. "That _is _quite some story," he said in a manner that belied the fact that it was not exactly what he had expected to hear.

Reece snorted and sat back in his chair. "'E's makin' dat up," he said, looking skeptically at Hector, where he sat across the table. He obviously thought Hector was just trying to impress Morgan.

"I've told it as plainly as I can," Hector replied defensively. "If ye don't believe me, then go and have a look in the alley."

All of the others at the table shared a look that said they might just think that was a good idea anyway, and Hector led the group to where he'd encountered the girl's attackers.

He led them well into the alley, and sure enough, there on the ground, was the fore half of an arm; a sword still clutched in its lifeless grip. Cezar let out a low whistle as Gray went over to take a closer look.

Gray squatted down and disengaged the sword from the fingers wrapped around the grip, and carried it back to the entrance to the alley as the others followed, scrutinizing it in the better lighting.

"This is a very fine blade, indeed," he said in an admiring way. "I should highly doubt that the man you defeated was the original owner. More than likely this was stolen, and probably from a wealthy nobleman."

Morgan went to stand next to Gray, looking from the sword to Gray's face. "It would seem to me that she has a new master now, don't you think?"

Gray smiled back at Morgan and then turned to Hector, offering him the sword. "Take this, Barbossa. It will bring you luck to carry the blade from your first victory with a sword."

Hector took the weapon that Gray offered to him and relinquished his own as he inspected the sword. It was expertly crafted of the finest steel, and a guard that spread out in the form of an ornate shell protected the hilt.

He turned at last and hung it at his left hip, not knowing at that moment he would never lose a duel as long as he carried it for well over twenty years.

--


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** Thanks for the review, Mary, and thanks to all of you who have been reviewing and letting me know what you think!

This is a bit of a longer chapter, hope you all like it!

--

**Chapter Twelve**

Hector was driving Cezar to distraction talking about nothing but the girl he'd met the evening before, and he finally suggested that the lad go and seek her out, just to be free of the running commentary about her. While it had been obvious that she had been quite grateful to her young rescuer, it was also obvious that Hector, although he hadn't realized it himself yet, was quite smitten with the lovely Christine.

"Pay her a visit, _Patife_," Cezar had suggested. "We will not be in port forever, and I wager that she'd be just as glad to see you today as last night, if the way she was hanging on your arm is any indication."

Hector turned bright red at Cezar's comment.

"What?" Cezar asked, when he saw the lad's reaction. "Do you think it to be a bad thing that the young lady finds you interesting?"

Hector ran a hand back through his hair, still looking sheepish. "No."

"Then go!" Cezar said with a laugh.

--

Hector came upon the house that he'd escorted Christine to the night before and stood upon the stoop, trying to decide whether or not he should knock. He was finding that it was now more difficult to call the next day, not sure if she'd want to see him or not again, than it had been to step into the duel.

He'd started to walk away twice, and then managed to screw up his courage again to approach the door. He was just about to raise his hand to knock on the door when it suddenly opened in front of him.

Merrie, one of the maids in the house that he had encountered the evening before, looked a bit surprised to find anyone standing on the other side of the door. She curtsied, and gave him a funny look. "Why, young Mr. Barbossa," she said, "good morning to you."

"Good morning," Hector replied politely.

"I imagine that you'd be calling to inquire about how Miss Christine is today, after her ordeal last night?" She asked giving Hector a knowing look that he missed.

"Aye….yes, yes I am," Hector replied, now a bit self-conscious.

"Thank goodness," the maid whispered. "She's been on all morning about you, driving her father and the rest of us mad."

Hector perked up immediately. "Truly?"

"Yes. She's been quite upset that her father thinks it improper for her to approach you. He wouldn't agree to escort her to the docks, no matter how much she insists she should thank you again."

"Oh." Hector's expression fell. "Her father doesn't approve?"

Merrie winked at him. "Of a young lady approachin' a young man….I didn't say he wouldn't approve of you comin' to call on her."

Hector looked decidedly more cheerful again as Merrie let him into the foyer.

"You wait there. I'll speak to her father to let him know you're here," she said, and then she disappeared through a doorway.

Hector had been on the receiving end of Christine's father's endless praise and thanks the night before, which was the reason he was delayed from returning to meet Cezar for so long, but the idea of having to meet her father's continued approval was proving to be a bit intimidating. It was only a moment before the man came into the room to greet Hector.

"Mr. Barbossa, what a pleasant surprise this is," the older man, Mr. Webster, said cordially, reaching out to shake Hector's hand again. "Come, sit down. Christine will be along shortly….I'm afraid she wasn't happy with how she looked, and went to change before coming to greet you."

Hector sat down in the chair Mr. Webster offered. "What might be wrong with the way she looks?" he asked, not understanding.

Mr. Webster sighed heavily. "Absolutely nothing," he said with an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand either," he said when he saw the look on Hector's face, "but you get used to this sort of thing after a while."

"Oh."

"So, Christine tells me that you've arrived in Nassau aboard the _Oxford_? Isn't that Henry Morgan's ship?" Webster asked.

"Yes," Hector answered carefully, not wanting to sound like a common sailor. "I've been aboard with Captain Morgan for nearly a month now."

He found himself trying to make conversation with Mr. Webster for nearly half an hour, while he glanced periodically down the hall, trying to see if there were any sign of Christine.

Finally Webster had apparently had enough of keeping his guest waiting as well. "Confound it, where is that girl?" he muttered, starting to rise out of his chair.

"Here, father," Christine said pleasantly, entering the room.

If Hector had thought her comely the night before, he had all he could do to keep his jaw from dropping open when she walked in the room, having evidently taken some trouble with her appearance. He decided that the wait was worth it.

"Ah, Christine, you look lovely," Webster said dotingly, "and here is young Mr. Barbossa, come to inquire as to your health this fine morning."

"Mr. Barbossa," Christine greeted him, giving him a smile that Hector also found was worth the wait.

"Miss Webster," he acknowledged her after standing, deciding to keep to formalities in front of her father.

"Well, let me find Merrie and see about arranging lunch for us all in the garden," Mr. Webster said, excusing himself for a few moments.

"How are you today?" Hector inquired, feeling a little awkward now that he was alone with Christine.

"Fine, really," she said coming to stand closer, "especially now that you're here."

"Truly?" Hector asked, obviously pleased that she would say such a thing.

Christine laughed lightly. "Truly, Hector. Should I not be glad to see you?"

"Nay…I mean no… I mean yes, ye should be…or that is, I be glad that yer glad…" He stopped mid-sentence and fell to laughing at himself for sounding like an idiot.

"I think I understand," Christine said, laughing along with him. "Would you walk me out to the garden?"

"Aye, gladly," he said, accompanying her down the hall and out into the garden behind the house. It was a small tropical paradise, and Hector had to admit he was impressed.

Mr. Webster poked his head out the door and called to them. "Lunch in half an hour?"

"That would be lovely, Father," Christine replied, smiling at the older man. She indicated that Hector should walk with her along the garden path.

"I wanted to see you again," she said in earnest. "I never really had the chance to thank you properly, myself, with my father carrying on the way he did last night."

"He was just glad that you were safe," Hector replied, " as was I."

"Well," Christine said, coming to a stop next to him, "I have you to thank for that."

Hector would have said something else, if he wasn't distracted by Christine putting a hand on his arm, and stepping a little closer to him.

"If it weren't for you," she said softly, taking even another step closer, "I might not be here at all."

"'Twould be unfortunate," Hector said unsteadily, not daring to move.

"Yes, it would," Christine said, standing on tiptoe a little as he was quite a bit taller than she was, "because then I wouldn't be able to do this…"

Hector was completely at a loss as to what he should do when Christine pressed her lips against his. His heart raced, and he felt lightheaded in a very pleasant way, and realized that he was still standing there with his eyes closed a moment after she'd stopped kissing him. He risked looking at her, and found that she was still very, very close.

"Did I offend you?" she asked, smiling shyly.

"No," was all he could manage.

"Well, then maybe this time you might kiss me back," she teased, and leaned toward him again.

Kissing Christine was unlike anything that Hector had ever imagined, and it was only the fear that her father might walk out on them any minute that caused him to finally pull reluctantly away.

After having lunch with Christine and her father in the garden, Hector took his leave of them, not wanting to overstay his welcome. He promised to call again the next day before the _Oxford_ headed out to sea again, and once Mr. Webster had seen him to the door, he was pleasantly surprised once again by Christine meeting him in the street. Evidently she had gone round the house the long way, while her father had escorted Hector through the house.

"You'll come back tomorrow like you promised?" she asked, taking his hand.

"Aye, that I certainly will," Hector replied.

Christine looked up at him coyly. "Would you kiss once me in case you don't come back?"

"I'll be back," Hector insisted, "I don't leave until the day after next."

"Would you kiss me anyway?" Christine asked, already closing the distance between them.

"Aye, that I certainly will," Hector replied, not caring that they were standing in the middle of the street. He drew her in this time, kissing her more deeply than he had in the garden. Again, it was only the fear of someone witnessing their improper behavior that enabled him to tear himself away.

--

When Hector made it back to where he said he'd meet Cezar, the older man could tell at once that something had happened. Nothing he said to the lad sank in the first time, and he had to continually repeat himself as Hector walked along beside him in a distracted fog.

Irritated at not being able to get the lad's attention, he finally said something.

"Barbossa, are you ill?" he asked.

"Hmmm?" Hector asked, still not hearing the question the first go round.

Cezar laughed, realizing what his young friend's problem likely was. "I take it Christine was glad to see you?"

Hector nodded distractedly.

"And did you have a pleasant visit with her?" Cezar asked, now fishing for more detail.

"Aye."

"Anything interesting happen while you were there?" Cezar continued asking.

Hector finally gave his full attention to Cezar. "Why do ye keep askin' all these questions of me?" he asked, a bit annoyed.

"I'm nosy and I want to know how many times she kissed you, _Patife_." Cezar replied with a laugh.

"Who says she kissed me?" Hector snapped, now getting a bit defensive. "Her father was there the whole time…..I've done nothin' improper, Cezar."

"Really?" Cezar asked, still amused.

"Really." Hector gave his answer as convincingly as he could.

Cezar couldn't resist. "Then tell my why it is that a great swordsman such as yourself has taken to wearing lipstick."

Hector flung up a hand and wiped his lips, glancing at the faint trace of red that came away on his palm. His face immediately turned the same shade as he wiped his hand off on his pants and Cezar laughed.

"Just be glad I told you before you ran into any of the others," Cezar said laughingly.

Hector was not as amused.

He would be even less amused when he and Cezar were later approached by Jedediah Gray, who was walking toward them in a hurry and looking grim.

"Ah, good. You are two of the last," Gray said, a bit out of breath. "The captain wants everyone back on board the ship immediately."

"What?" both Hector and Cezar said with evident surprise.

"I know. It has not been a popular decision," Gray said, " but Morgan received word from the captain of a ship that came in this morning that they had a narrow miss with the _Conquistador_ not a day out of Nassau. He doesn't want to pass up this opportunity."

Hector was in a state of mild panic. "How much time do we have?"

"Really none, I'm afraid," said Gray apologetically. "You two are nearly the last I've found. Once I manage to round up our elusive bo'sun, we'll be underway."

Hector was already backing away. "Have I yet twenty minutes?"

"Probably," Gray said, "but…"

"I'll be on board inside of twenty minutes!" He turned and ran for all he was worth before either of the two older men could say anything.

Gray looked to Cezar for an explanation, once the younger man had disappeared in a hurry around a corner, hurtling along at top speed. "What on earth is his problem?"

Cezar clapped Gray on the shoulder and turned to head back toward the _Oxford_. "I believe his problem's name is _Christine_, " he replied with a knowing smile.

"Ah," was all Gray said, understanding perfectly as he went to retrieve the bo'sun.

--

Hector pelted along the cross street, and nearly fell as he rounded a corner, skidding in the dust before he got his feet under him again, and charged up to the door of the Websters' home.

He knocked louder than he meant to, and stood on the step, waiting with his hands on his hips, panting and trying to catch his breath. Although only half a minute passed before Merrie came to the door, Hector thought that it had taken an eternity.

"Is Christine still home?" he gasped at her, still out of breath.

"Why no, Mr. Barbossa….."

"Where is she?" Hector asked, panting still.

"She's left for the rest of the day for a drive to the lake with her father," Merrie explained, now seeing the disappointment on the young man's face.

Hector's expression and demeanor couldn't have sunk more.

"I can tell her that you were looking for her," Merrie offered kindly.

"Aye, please do….and tell her goodbye for me too?" he asked. "My ship's off a day early."

Merrie seemed entirely sympathetic. "She'll be quite disappointed she missed you, but you can be sure that I'll tell her you made a special effort to try and see her."

"Thank you," Hector said, and knowing that he was running out of time, trotted dejectedly back to the _Oxford_.

--

Cezar found the young man to be impossible to deal with for the next twenty -four hours, and he wasn't the only one.

Frustrated and disappointed at having to leave without saying goodbye to Christine, Hector was moody, petulant and irritable, even during his lesson with Gray. With the boy's foul temper, Gray had thought it best not to ask him to switch back to the sword with the dull blade, and he sparred with the lad, trying to get him to focus on what he was doing with the very sharp weapon he now possessed.

Hector darted in a bit recklessly, and Gray sidestepped him easily, and then berated him for being so careless. "Focus, Barbossa! If you charge in so carelessly, you are likely to impale yourself without any effort on my part at all!"

"I am focusing!" Hector snarled back, letting his sword arm drop and glaring at Gray.

"Your focus was left behind in Nassau," Gray said more gently. "And while I completely understand, you can't let that get in the way. You must not get emotional when you draw your sword, Barbossa."

Hector glared at him still from where he stood, out of breath from their sparring.

"Hector," Gray said, now regaining some measure of patience, " I have already said that the sword is drawn for the purpose of injuring or killing only, have I not?"

"Aye," Hector answered.

"And when you parted that man from his arm the other night, did you do it recklessly, or did you remain calm and focused?"

"I stayed calm, like ye taught me….even tried to keep my breathing under control," Hector replied, letting some of his anger go.

"Of course you did. With your limited experience, it would have been the one advantage that you had over your opponent," Gray explained. "If you can remain calm in a dangerous situation like that, then surely you can focus here in the face of a little disappointment over a girl?"

Hector gave him a bit of a dirty look but nodded.

"Besides," Gray added, "if you continue to make progress the way you have been up until this point, Christine will be most overwhelmed with your skill as a swordsman the next time you meet her."

Hector fought the smile that was threatening to take over his features and lost. "How do ye know her name?"

Gray sighed. "I am afraid that thanks to your friend, Mr. Silva, the whole ship probably knows her name by now." He saw the look on the boy's face. "Not to worry, Barbossa. Cezar has been telling a most impressive tale of how you saved the beauty from certain harm by facing three cutthroats down by yourself."

"That be what happened, Mr. Gray," Hector replied, somewhat insistent.

"Yes, I know, but you haven't heard the version that the crew is getting from Cezar," Gray said with a grin. "You will be as much of a legend as the _Conquistador_ once he is through."

Hector couldn't resist mouthing off. "I hope to someday be better known than that," he said, causing Gray to laugh.

"Well, let us see what we can do about obtaining that goal, shall we?" Gray said, raising his sword again.

Hector drew his own blade into a middle position, and would have engaged Gray again, if it weren't for the distant voice of the lookout overhead.

"Sail ho!"

Gray stepped back and shielded his eyes with his hand. "What bearing, Mr. Harlow?" he called up to the lookout.

"One point abaft the starboard beam, sir!" Harlow called down, pointing out to sea to over the starboard rail.

Gray spoke to Hector as they both sheathed their swords. "Fetch the captain, lad, if you would."

Hector hurried to knock on the door of the ship's great cabin, waiting anxiously for an answer.

"Enter," he heard in Morgan's muffled voice from the interior.

Hector walked into the cabin for the first time, not knowing that he would sit someday at the very table that Morgan now leaned over.

Morgan looked up. "Ah, Master Barbossa. How goes it with the new sword?"

"Very well, sir," Hector answered politely. "Captain," he began a little urgently, "there's a ship…."

"I heard you made quite the impression on that young lady that you rescued the other night," Morgan continued.

"Aye, sir, but there be a …."

Morgan smiled. "And she made a favorable impression on you as well, from what I'm told."

Hector was getting flustered. "Aye, she's a fine lass indeed, sir, but…"

"You did make it a point to let her family know that it is my ship you sail on, didn't you Barbossa? We can use all the good relations with the public we can get."

"Of course, Cap'n. I told her father I was with the _Oxford_, and he knew her to be your ship," Hector replied. "If I may speak, sir?"

"Of course. What is it, Barbossa?" Morgan said, absently looking back at the map spread out on the table before him.

"Captain, the lookout has spotted a ship," Hector finally managed to say.

"A ship, you say? Where, Mr. Barbossa?" Morgan asked calmly, picking up his plumed hat and placing it on his head, but remaining in front of the map

"One point abaft the starboard beam, sir," Hector replied smartly.

"What flag does she fly, lad?" Morgan asked, looking up briefly from his study of the page in front of him.

"That I do not know, sir," Hector said honestly.

"Well, if you would be so kind as to take that," Morgan said, gesturing at the spyglass on the end of the table, " and see what you can make of her colors, that would be most helpful." He waived Hector away. "Go on. Report back directly, Mr. Barbossa."

Hector had no idea why Morgan would ask this of him, but he certainly wouldn't question it in front of the man. "Aye, Captain," he said, taking the glass and heading back out to see what he could determine about the distant ship.

Stepping on deck, Hector went to the starboard rail, and feeling a little self-conscious, raised the glass to his eye and located the ship. It took him a few minutes to see what he was after, and once he realized what flag she flew, he collapsed the glass and trotted back to the cabin.

"Cap'n," Hector said, waiting while Morgan finished writing something in the corner of the page on the table.

"What did you find out, Mr. Barbossa?" he asked calmly. "Does she fly the Spanish flag?"

"Aye, sir. Red angled cross on a white field. She'd be the _Conquistador_ fer certain, Cap'n," Hector said, now feeling the need to communicate with Morgan more urgently.

"There is more than one Spanish vessel in these waters, Mr. Barbossa," Morgan said, unhurriedly. "What makes you think this is her?"

Hector told Morgan the bad news. "She's bearing down on us fast, and if we not be quick about it, she'll have our wind."

Morgan looked up, no longer interested in the map. "You think she's after our weather gage?" he asked, now coming to take the glass and escort the lad back out on deck.

"'Twould appear that way to my eyes, Captain," Hector said, trotting along next to him.

Morgan watched the Spanish ship for a minute, and then collapsed the glass. "It would appear that you just may be right," he said gravely.

"Right about what, sir?" Hartwell asked, now coming on deck to stand next to the captain.

Morgan turned to him. "Master Barbossa has suggested that we've just stopped being the ship that is doing the hunting, and I believe he is correct."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

--

The _Conquistador_ was bearing down on them, and had the wind in her favor, and Morgan knew that at the current rate and angle that she was gaining on the _Oxford_, if she got close enough she might steal their wind. It was a favorite tactic of Don Alonso del Campo, and his crew was adept at pulling such a maneuver off, even under battle conditions.

He was going to have to meet her and get out in front of her so that she didn't grab the wind advantage, and he ordered the change of course to starboard. "Hang more canvas, Mr. Hartwell," Morgan ordered. "We need to get out ahead of that wench!"

Hartwell and Reece quickly set the crew at work with the sails, and the helmsman veered several degrees to starboard, sailing closer to the wind. Little by little as the _Oxford_ gained momentum, and raced to get out ahead of the _Conquistador_ before she caught them, it became apparent that the race was going to be a very close contest.

So close that Morgan worried that while they might get ahead of the Spanish ship and maintain their wind, they might put themselves dead in her sights. It would only be a matter then of who had the faster ship, and although Morgan was willing to bet that he did, he didn't want to take that chance.

Hector understood what Morgan was trying to do, and it became apparent even to him as the game of cat and mouse wore on, that things were going to be very tight. He watched as Morgan picked up the spyglass again and studied the rapidly nearing _Conquistador._

"Mr. Hartwell," Morgan said suddenly, after scrutinizing the other ship for a moment, "I want you to hold this course until I tell you, and then I want you to take her as close to the wind as we can go without clapping ourselves in irons, and run out the port guns."

Hartwell frowned at what Morgan had called for, but didn't question him. He gave the orders for the cannons to be readied, and took the helm himself to be ready for the captain's signal.

Hector, like Hartwell didn't understand the captain's plan. While their first course appeared to be close to getting them where they might get out ahead of the _Conquistador_, the additional change in course to starboard had set them on almost a direct intercept course.

"Mr. Reece," Morgan called to the bo'sun.

"Aye, Cap'n?" Reece responded.

"Make ready to luff the sails on my signal," Morgan ordered, and Reece scramble to get the crew in place.

Hector frowned. He didn't understand what Morgan had in mind.

"You look a bit concerned, Mr. Barbossa," Morgan said from nearby, after evidently seeing the frown the younger man wore.

"Aye, sir," Hector said. "This be a close contest already…."

"You're right," Morgan said. "I fear a little too close, so we're changing plans." He glanced out over the rail at the where they were rapidly coming up on the _Conquistador_. "I don't want them to know too soon, otherwise they might change course again."

Hector watched the other ship with increasing anxiety. "I still don't….."

"If we decrease our angle near to the last minute, and do it without heading into the wind, we should be able to catch her off guard."

"But why give up the chance to escape 'er guns?" Hector asked. "Not that I be questionin' yer orders –I just want to understand what ye have planned."

Morgan seemed amused by the young man's pluck and curiosity. "If we play this right, and this is going to require _delicate timing_, and a light hand on our sails, we should drop just enough speed that the _Conquistador _will overshoot us."

"And we'll pass astern of her and point the guns at her rudder," Hector said, brightening as he finally understood. He frowned again after a minute. "What might happen if our timin' not be delicate enough, Captain?"

"In that case we run a very small risk of collision with the _Conquistador_," Morgan said to Hector's apparent relief.

"However," Morgan continued, "it'll be much more likely that we'll clap ourselves in irons and become a sitting duck.

Hector frowned. "I think I'd be preferrin' that we time things right."

Morgan let out a short bark of laughter. "Well, then I shall do my best, Mr. Barbossa."

As the distance between the two ships shrank, it became clear to Hector that it was very likely that they would be in range of the long guns of the _Conquistador_ before Morgan changed course, and he didn't think he liked the idea of having cannons fired at him.

When the first volley was fired at them by the Spanish ship, and showers of seawater started exploding alongside the _Oxford_, Hector wondered for a moment whether or not he'd made a mistake in signing on for this trip, but when the _Oxford_ answered with her own guns, and the first impact from her cannons blew apart a section of rail from the _Conquistador_, he found that the excitement of the moment overshadowed much of the anxiety he was experiencing.

The tension on deck was nearly palpable, as the crew waited for Morgan's orders and were forced to weather the next volley from the _Conquistado_r. Hector felt the ship shudder as their bow was struck, and he ducked involuntarily at the sight of fragments of wood flying across the deck as a chunk of their own bulwark exploded some distance forward of where he stood near Morgan still.

The _Oxford_ returned fire again, as the space between the two rival ships continued to shrink, and her crew watched at the ready, as the third round was fired at them from a much closer range, threatening to do more damage this time.

Morgan who had been gauging things carefully next to Hector, suddenly turned and called to Hartwell. "Now, Mr. Hartwell!"

Hartwell steered them several degrees starboard, and cannon fire exploded in the water to port again as the _Oxford_ veered closer toward the wind.

Morgan waited patiently for the opportune moment. "At the ready, Mr. Reece!" he called, tracking the activity on the nearing Spanish ship, and the sharp angle at which they now bore down on her. "Hold 'er there, Mr. Hartwell, just a bit longer!"

Hector watched anxiously as Morgan waited until they were so close he could see individual members of the crew much more distinctly. When the captain appeared certain that the _Conquistador_, thinking that the _Oxford_ had misjudged her escape route, was not going to change course, he gave the order to Reece. "Loosen the sheets!" he cried across the deck.

The crew worked frantically to cut the efficiency of the sails, and Hector felt their momentum drop off noticeably. At that point the two ships were well within range of each other's guns, and chunks of wood were blasted away from both hulls and railings. The _Oxford_ took a last blow from the aft cannons on the _Conquistador_, and managed to sail just past the rear of the Spanish ship.

"Fire all port guns!" Morgan cried, as the stern of the other ship was now a ready target, and Reece relayed the command to the gun deck.

"Fire aal guns!" he sang out, and the seventeen port guns unloaded into the _Conquistador_, raking her stern and doing great damage to her transom and rudder.

Morgan's orders sang out across the deck again. "Hard to port, Mr. Hartwell!" and the _Oxford_ swung about, coming alongside the _Conquistador_ on her starboard, raking her again with a barrage of cannon fire as her crew scrambled to abandon her port guns and man her starboard battery.

The two ships were now side-by-side, and close enough that the two crews were now shooting at each other with pistols and rifles.

Morgan turned to speak to Reece again, but dropped quickly behind the rail along with Hector as a bullet whizzed past his head in a near miss. Hector's eyes were wide at how close the shot had been, and he saw that a small hole had been torn through the edge of Morgan's hat.

"Bloody hell," Morgan hissed, and he glanced over the rail at where Don Alonso stood on the deck of his ship, smoking flintlock in his hand. "He wants to play it that way? Alright, then." He turned to look Hector in the eye.

"I've heard you say that you're a right fine shot, Mr. Barbossa," he said. "How true is this?"

"It'd be quite true, sir," Hector said in earnest, his tone of voice colored with a small amount of pride. "I can pick a scamperin' coney off at a hundred paces nine times of ten."

Morgan smiled grimly. "How about a Spanish pirate captain at the same distance?" he asked, starting intently into the lad's eyes.

Hector felt the pit of his stomach tighten at the thought of what Morgan was asking him to do, and after a moment for the request to sink in, nodded at Morgan silently.

Morgan clapped him on the shoulder. "Good lad. Now, this is not going to be without risk, Barbossa. Are you still willing?"

"Aye, sir," Hector replied, as steadily as he could, given the fact that Morgan had just asked him to kill a man. He wasn't entirely sure that he was willing, but not wanting to disappoint this man who was his captain, he had agreed.

Morgan glanced up into the rigging and then back at Hector where they still crouched out of the line of fire. "Alonso wears a red hat -black feathers. You can't bloody help but see him."

He turned to where Reece had also crouched down next to them, waiting impatiently to speak with the captain, and held his hand out for the rifle he had with him. Reece frowned, but relinquished the weapon to Morgan, who then handed it to Hector. He spoke more gently as he met Hector's eyes again. "Be careful, Barbossa."

"Aye, ye can count on that," Hector said as he nodded, and swallowed hard. He turned away from where Morgan was now marshalling the crew to fire back at the Spanish ship and prepare to board her.

The commotion on deck was tremendous with the noise of men shouting, and pistol shots ringing across the deck, and the crew paid little attention to what the youngest of their numbers was doing as he ran crouched down across the deck to the far side of the mainmast, and threw his back up against it. He was contemplating the rigging overhead, and had just thrown a hand onto the nets when he heard Cezar's voice.

"Barbossa! There you are." He threw himself up against the mast next to Hector, glancing once around the mast at the mayhem where the two crews were trying to get at each other's ships, and hand to hand combat was now sweeping across the battle.

"What are you doing?" Cezar asked grimly.

"Followin' an order," Hector replied abruptly, reaching again for the rigging.

Cezar's eyes went wide. "You can't go up there! You'll be…."

Hector's expression went cold, cutting Cezar off. "I'll be followin' an order, Cezar," he said again irritatedly. "Morgan himself asked me to…"

Cezar grew angry. "Morgan has no idea what he's asked of you," he spat, eyeing the gun in Hector's hand.

"Do ye think me unable to perform me duty, Cezar?" Hector demanded, now angry that Cezar was fussing over him like a mother hen. "Do ye think I can't do it?"

Cezar's voice grew less angry. "I hoped you wouldn't have to," he replied. "You don't have to…."

Angry with Cezar being overprotective of him again, and wanting so much to be looked upon favorably by Morgan, Hector snarled wordlessly in frustration at his friend, and turning his back on him, began climbing the starboard shroud with the rifle.

Cezar sighed heavily, knowing there was nothing else he could do. He drew his sword and guarded the mainmast, remaining on the lookout for anyone across the deck who might turn their gaze skyward.

Hector could watch the battle unfolding and sweeping now across the decks of the two ships as he climbed as far as the topmast. He glanced deckward again briefly to note that Cezar was now engaged with a Spaniard at the foot of the mast, and his anger was replaced momentarily with great concern until he saw the Spaniard crumple to the deck, and Cezar once again plant himself firmly at the base of the mast.

Hector sighed and found himself better footing where he stood precariously on the yard, leaning up against the mast. He knew Cezar was just looking out for him, but it irritated him more everyday that the older man wouldn't trust his own decisions.

He could hear Morgan's voice below, shouting orders and directing the assault on the _Conquistador,_ and he began searching the other deck for the Spanish captain. It didn't take long, despite the wave of confusion that washed across the ship, to find the red hat, and Hector noted that Alonso was doing the same as Morgan- directing the battle from where he remained behind the scenes to some degree.

Hector raised the rifle, and sighted the red plumed hat, knowing that this would be an easy shot compared shooting rabbits as they ducked and scurried through the orchard back home. He hesitated, lowered the gun a little, and then re-sighted the Spanish captain, and hesitated again.

It wasn't that he couldn't get a clear shot- he'd had the man in his sights for twenty seconds at that point. It was the fact that pulling the trigger was so much more difficult than he'd imagined doing.

The widespread clash of steel on steel reached his ears from below as he hesitated, as did the cries of the wounded and the dying. Morgan's words about having to choose the lesser of two evils to accomplish greater good came back to him at that moment, and he realized what Morgan did. If the Spanish captain were eliminated, it would demoralize his crew, and at least temporarily leave them without a general. If the _Oxford's_ crew could defeat the _Conquistador's_ quickly, then more lives would be spared in the bargain.

Hector raised the gun again, now willing to trade the one life for many that might be saved, and sighted the black plume in the red hat. He dropped his aim ever so slightly down and to the right, accounting for the strong wind that was sweeping over the two ships.

--

Morgan had been watching Alonso carefully, trying to keep track of the orders that he was giving to his men, and counter any assault with one of his own. He'd seen the Spanish captain raise his sword and yell for his men to rush the rail again, and then the man's head snapped back sharply as the arm holding the sword slowly sank back to his side.

Morgan watched as the sword clattered away, and Alonso slowly crumpled to the deck, blood awash over his face as it flowed down from under his red hat.

He glanced overhead briefly, now seeing the young marksman ducking behind the topmast as a flurry of bullets raced by, and the Spaniards retaliated at where they had figured the lethal shot to have come from. Small chunks and shards of wood ripped away all over the section of the mast where Hector stood with his back pressed to it for cover.

Taking advantage of the opportunity that the boy had just given them, Morgan quickly ordered the crew to assail the ship in earnest, and the confusion on the other side that had resulted from their illustrious captain being cut down provided the hesitation in the Spanish pirates that Morgan needed.

Hector had not been expecting the almost immediate volley of vengeful gunfire in his direction, and he had barely seen Don Alonso fall, when he was forced to fling himself around the far side of the topmast again, nearly losing his balance on the yard in the process. He had pressed his back once more against the mast, and stood there, panting, while he waited for the shots to stop.

His wasn't sure at that point if his racing heart was due more to the fact that he'd nearly been shot, or had nearly just fallen off the yard, or more because he'd just killed a man in cold blood. The shots in his direction tapered off, and Hector, feeling weak in the legs, and was glad for the support of the mast against his back.

By the time Hector had thought his legs were back to being stable enough, he'd risked a quick descent down the shroud, and jumped down to the deck, flinging himself back up against the base of the mainmast next to where Cezar waited, looking as grim as Hector had ever seen him.

The noise across the decks was already lessening as the tide of battle shifted, and Cezar spoke to Hector where they stood together.

"That was quite some shot," he said in an odd, flat voice.

Hector looked at Cezar and saw that there was no cheer in his expression, and knew the compliment to be more than what it seemed on the surface.

"What mean ye by that?" Hector asked, disturbed enough by what he'd just done, and not needing a lecture by Cezar at that moment.

Cezar just glanced at him coldly, and shrugged. The two stood on deck monitoring where the crew of the _Oxford_ was now dealing with a large number of prisoners aboard the captain-less _Conquistador._

After giving the orders to disarm all the survivors and lock them up, Morgan had turned, and swept the deck with his eyes for the boy. He found him standing next to Cezar and was glad for it, knowing that this could be a difficult moment for someone who had just done what Barbossa did.

Morgan strode across the deck to where the two stood, and spoke buoyantly to the lad. "Barbossa, that was the finest shot I have seen in quite some time!" He clapped the subdued teenager on the shoulder heartily. "You are quite the hero today, my lad!"

Hector's expression became puzzled but pleased.

"Nine years I've waited to catch up with Don Alonso del Campo," Morgan said, slipping his arm around Hector's shoulders in a companionable way, and leading him across the deck a few paces as Cezar stayed close to hear what was being said. "And today, you are half the reason for our success."

Hector had perked up considerably at the praise from his illustrious captain. "Truly think ye that?"

"Quite definitely, Barbossa," Morgan said in earnest. "There are a lot of men who probably owe their lives to the fact that you helped turn the tide of events so…decisively," he said solemnly, as Cezar frowned nearby.

"What he did was kill a man in cold blood," Cezar said softly.

Morgan turned on Cezar, but there was no animosity in his voice as he faced the challenging comment. "Aye," Morgan nodded. "That he did. He followed an order sharply, despite the great risk to his own person."

Cezar raised an eyebrow skeptically as Morgan continued. "It is no easy thing for any man to understand that sometimes sacrifice must be the means to a greater end, Mr. Silva, and I am thankful that young Master Barbossa here possesses the wisdom and the fortitude already to see this so clearly, and follow it through." He clapped Hector on the back affectionately again and let go of his shoulders.

Cezar continued to look at Morgan distrustfully, and the captain sent Hector to help with seeing to the prisoners across on the other ship.

Neither of the two men said anything for a moment, and then finally Morgan spoke first. "If you have an opinion you'd like to share, Mr. Silva, I offer you the chance to speak freely."

Cezar nodded. "I will not say that I agree with what you asked Barbossa to do today, nor with treating him like a hero for shooting down a man in cold blood, enemy or no."

Morgan nodded. "I understand your concern for the lad," he replied, "but do you think I should say nothing and let him dwell with the demons that might plague him about that fact?"

"Perhaps," Cezar said, thinking it might not be a bad thing for Hector to have to deal with the pangs of remorse.

Morgan snorted and pulled his hat off, rubbing his temples as he spoke. "Why do you think I sent him aloft, Cezar? Do you think he would have been better off if I had sent him into that battle hand to hand? Should I have sent the boy below to cower in the holds? What would that have accomplished?"

Cezar had to reluctantly agree that Hector had been better kept out of harm's way, but that didn't mean he liked it. It was his turn to snort derisively.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking that I am a heartless old sailor with no concern for the boy, Cezar." Morgan said, trying to make the other man understand.

"I do not think that of you, sir," Cezar replied coolly.

"No?" Morgan asked, knowing that there was more implied in Cezar's statement.

"No." Cezar replied. "I think you to be a heartless old _pirate_, with no concern for the boy."

Morgan's eyebrows shot up for a second at Silva's candid admission, and then he laughed heartily. "You would not be the only man to have ever said so, Mr. Silva."

He stopped laughing after a moment. "And, I can tell you honestly that you are wrong, Cezar. I'm quite fond of the lad, and I think him to have a very great deal of potential."

"For what?" Cezar asked, frowning, and clearly not liking what Morgan was saying.

Morgan perched his plumed hat back atop his head and turned to walk away, speaking over his shoulder as he did. "That, my friend, would be up to young Master Barbossa."

--

A/N: I am not a sailor, nor do I even play one on TV, but since this fic is all for fun, we'll just pretend it sounds like I know what I'm talking about with the sailing maneuvers. ;)


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

**--**

If Cezar was displeased with how Morgan handled his treatment of Hector after the lad had shot and killed the captain of the _Conquistador_, he had to admit that he held a certain amount of grudging admiration for the man when he made a point of treating the prisoners he held with a great deal of respect.

While it was very likely that each of the Spaniards held captive on board their own ship would end up being hung once the _Conquistador _was finally brought into Port Royal, Morgan went out of his way to make it known to the crew that they had been worthy adversaries, and were to be treated as such.

As for Cezar's earlier prediction about Morgan looting the Spanish vessel, that would prove to be true, and the crew of the _Oxford_, still falling faintly under the description of privateers, made short work of deciding how the spoils were to be divided.

Morgan allowed the men to take trophies of swords or guns, or personal effects of the men that had been killed, promising that the cargo and treasure the _Conquistador_ carried would be divided in equal shares once they returned to Jamaica.

Hector, having been kept busy helping with the Spanish prisoners, and now in awe of the amount of cargo the other ship had stolen, was too preoccupied with the amount of money that he understood was going to be his to be worried excessively about the fact that the Spanish captain was dead.

What he was about to earn as a member of Morgan's crew, on one voyage, was going easily to surpass the amount of money he'd made in a year on the _Tempest_, and Hector decided that leaving Wallace's ship for Morgan's was the best decision he'd ever made. If he could even get a portion of that money home to his mother, it would be a long time, indeed, before she'd have the occasion to want for much.

Hector also had the suspicion that before that money ran out, it would be likely that he'd not have to worry so much about his mother, as Cezar would likely be staying in Padstow the next time the two of them made it back to England.

--

It was well into the celebration that was held on the deck of the _Oxford_ that night, when Hector found himself at the mercy of entirely too much alcohol for the second time in his life.

He was being toasted repeatedly, and treated as a hero by the crew for shooting down Don Alonso, and although he'd developed a higher tolerance for rum than before, the amount of rum he consumed during the rowdy victory party soon had him heaving over the railing, cursing himself for being so stupid and not keeping better track of what he was drinking.

Too old now at seventeen for Cezar to put him to bed, the older man nevertheless stood by, making sure that Hector didn't inadvertently fall overboard while retching over the side.

Hector leaned his head on his arms, panting and miserable from vomiting, and hoping the last bout was the final one, when he notice that Cezar was leaning against the railing next to him. He glanced at the older man out of the corner of his eye, and spoke hoarsely.

"Ye'll not find it necessary to speak of this to me mother again, will ye?" he said, trying to make light of the fact that he was an absolute drunken mess.

Cezar shook his head. "Of course not, and it wouldn't be the only thing I'd choose not to tell her, Barbossa."

Hector nodded weakly, thankful that Cezar would not mention that he'd shot the Spanish pirate. "I'm sorry if ye find me a disappointment, Cezar," he said, suddenly.

Cezar was caught off guard by the young man's concern about his opinion.

"I'd not meant to disappoint ye," Hector carried on, a bit emotional with alcohol. "I just wanted to…just thought…."

Cezar put a reassuring hand on the lad's shoulder. "It is not you I am disappointed in, Hector. You never should have been put in the position you found yourself in today."

Hector was not through being upset. "I can understand if ye'd want nothin' to do with me after today," he said miserably.

"Hector," Cezar said, squeezing his shoulder more tightly, "it would take a lot more than you following an order I disagreed with to ever make me want to have nothing to do with you."

"Really?" Hector asked blearily.

"Really," Cezar said in earnest. "We may not always see eye to eye, but that doesn't change our friendship."

"Good." Hector seemed pleased with the answer, and rested his head back down against his arms. Before Cezar could speak again, the lad had begun to sink to his knees, and then slid down the railing onto the deck as he passed out.

Cezar bent down and pulled Hector away from the rail, rolling him onto his side so he wasn't plastered face down against the deck. He knelt over the still form for a moment, and heaved a great sigh. "It also doesn't change the fact that I care about you like my own son, _Patife_." He sat down next to the unconscious teenager, keeping watch over him for the next few hours.

--

The _Oxford _was the toast of Port Royal, and Morgan and his men were celebrated as heroes as she made port, followed closely by the _Conquistador_ that had been brought in behind her by part of Morgan's crew.

It took little time indeed, for the crew of the Spanish ship to be condemned as pirates and sentenced to hang, and although Hector wasn't certain he was thrilled about witnessing the execution, Cezar, curiously enough, managed to drag him along to witness what would happen the day they were to die.

Hector had the sneaking suspicion that Cezar was trying to impress upon him what happened to those who crossed the line from privateer to pirate, but he humored his friend and went along with most of Morgan's crew to see the men executed.

What managed to capture Hector's attention more than the actual hangings, which of course were highly unpleasant, was the way that the citizens of Port Royal treated him and the rest of the crew. Now considered heroes for defeating the plague that had been the _Conquistador_, Morgan's crew found themselves offered every courtesy by those that had come to witness the hangings.

Word had gotten around that the youngest member of the _Oxford's_ crew was actually the one to dispatch the feared Spanish pirate, and Hector found himself somewhat of a celebrity, especially among the younger female population of the Jamaican port.

Unused to being the focus of women's attention, other than his brief encounter with Christine, he rapidly decided that the way many of the groups of young women were talking and looking at him, giggling as he passed with Cezar, was not necessarily a bad thing.

Cezar, as Hector had suspected, had been intending to try to make a grim impression on his young companion at the hanging, but was finding instead, that due to the fact that so many of the young women were giggling and flirting with the young man as he walked by, things were not going as planned.

He was sure by the time they had found a place to watch the hangings off to one side, that Hector, walking with his hand resting jauntily on his new sword, had acquired just a bit of a swagger to his step, and Cezar rolled his eyes and muttered to himself in Portuguese.

When the first lot of unfortunate Spanish pirates had met their untimely demise at the end of the hangman's ropes, Cezar risked a glance at Hector to see how the lad had reacted.

What he found was that Hector's gaze had traveled across the courtyard some distance to where he could see that Morgan stood with several high ranking Jamaican officials and the current Governor, and he didn't think he liked where the lad's thoughts were probably going.

When the hangings were finished, Cezar and Hector wandered away with the rest of the gathered crowd, and one last group of girls fell together giggling as Hector walked by, and Cezar swore he thought he saw the young man wink at them. Things were not going at all to his liking, especially when Morgan stepped forward to intercept Hector when they passed.

Cezar chose to hang back for the moment as Morgan dragged the lad to introduce him to the Governor himself, and he shook his head, not caring for the fact that the governor had obviously spoken some word of praise to the _Oxford's_ youngest hero, and clapped the lad on the shoulder.

He missed the fact, however, that Morgan then took the time to introduce Hector to his wife, as the sight of Hawkeye Hartwell, standing nearby and likewise watching Morgan, caught his attention. Hartwell didn't look pleased, and Cezar could easily discern that the man's displeasure was apparently focused on Hector.

As second in command to Morgan, Hartwell had played a large role in the capture of the _Conquistador,_ but today was sharing less in the glory than normally he'd been accustomed to, primarily because of Hector.

Cezar resolved to keep an eye on the man, and say something later to Hector about making sure he did nothing to cross the first mate.

--

As it turned out, Morgan had another venture that Hector was anxious to sign on for, and it looked like it was going to be some time before he managed to go home again to England. He was thrilled, therefore when the _Tempest_ made port, now under the command of Murdock, formerly Wallace's first mate.

Hector was able to arrange with his old friend to take most of the money he'd earned back to Bristol with him, and he knew that Murdock would keep his word to see that the money and accompanying letter would make their way to Padstow.

Cezar did his best as the months passed, to keep an eye on Beryan's son, but his job grew more and more difficult as Morgan's influence with the lad grew. Morgan gave Hector more and more responsibility on the ship, and when the lad had passed his nineteenth birthday, it was apparent that it wouldn't be long before Morgan probably gave the young man an office aboard the _Oxford_.

The day came when the _Oxford_ had defeated and captured a pirate ship, this one actually of primarily English pirates, and Hartwell began to assign some of the crew to sail the ship, called the _Reckless,_ back to Port Royal behind the _Oxford_.

Morgan, standing nearby, was watching Hector carefully, knowing the lad wanted to be assigned to the captured ship, and he frowned when he saw that Hartwell, probably intentionally, left the younger man out.

He knew that Hartwell resented some of the attention that he lavished on the young man, but he knew that his first mate would still not challenge his authority –at least not yet.

Morgan strode forward and clapped Hartwell on the back, even as the man was preparing to lead his small group to the _Reckless_. "What say you let someone else shoulder part of the load, James?" he said jovially "No sense in not taking advantage of some of the perks of being first mate, eh?"

Hartwell said nothing but clearly didn't like where things were going.

"You stay with the _Oxford_ and celebrate with me," Morgan said, playing things carefully. "You've earned it. Let someone else worry about the bloody ship."

Hartwell narrowed his eyes at Morgan. "Who? I'd not planned on …."

"Oh, I don't know," Morgan said nonchalantly, looking around the deck. He spoke to one of the men that often served as lookout, knowing him to be a fine sailor. "You, Harlow, go along with that crew,…" Morgan looked about him some more. "Mr. Silva, would you be so kind?"

Cezar nodded and went to accompany Harlow as Morgan's gaze came to rest on Hector.

"Mr. Barbossa," Morgan said cheerfully. "Come here, please."

Hector came to stand before him. "Sir?"

"I need a favor," Morgan said, earning another look of suspicion from Hartwell. "Someone needs to bring that wench into port, and Mr. Hartwell and I have important business to attend to."

"Cap'n?" Hector said, hardly daring to believe what it appeared Morgan was asking of him.

"I trust you've handled this ship enough by now that you could probably bring a schooner like that into port?" Morgan asked, trying not to smile too much at the look on the younger man's face.

"Aye, sir," Hector said smartly, "if ye be needin' a navigator fer her, I can bring in."

"Excellent," Morgan said. "Take this group to the _Reckless_, then. I expect to see her in Port Royal in three days, Mr. Barbossa."

Hector broke into a wide grin. "Three days, sir?" he said, now a bit cocksure after Morgan's vote of confidence. "We'll be there in two, Cap'n, same as the _Oxford_."

Morgan laughed. "Perhaps we need to have a little wager running on this, Barbossa?" he offered. "I propose that if you bring that schooner into port, less than twelve hours after the _Oxford_ drops anchor, that I will assign you the position of quartermaster on board the _Oxford._"

It was well known that Hartwell was likely to be assigned his own ship in Morgan's fleet soon, and that Jedediah Gray would likely be made first mate, leaving a need on the _Oxford _for a quartermaster. Having spent so much time in the company of Gray learning the sword and otherwise, Hector had essentially been acting as the quartermaster's mate for quite some time.

Hector nodded, thrilled at what Morgan was suggesting. "An' if I bring 'er in longer than twelve hours after?" he asked.

"Then you will be quartermaster, but at half pay for the year," Morgan said, a wry grin in place that contrasted sharply with the scowl Hartwell wore next to him.

"Agreed!" Hector called back to Morgan, even as he ran to catch up with Harlow, Cezar and the others already preparing the _Reckless_.

Hartwell gave Morgan an unhappy look. "Do you really think that's wise?" he asked.

"What, James?" Morgan asked, indicating the first mate should follow him into his cabin. He shut the door once they were both inside, and indicated that Hartwell should sit down.

"Letting Barbossa bring the ship in," Hartwell said, not doing a very good job of hiding his displeasure.

Morgan waved at him with a mildly dismissive gesture. "James, the lad is more than capable of bringing that schooner in for us," he said, taking a seat at the table across from Hartwell.

"I'm not just speaking of navigating, sir," Hartwell replied, his one-eyed gaze meeting Morgan's steadily. "He's a bit young to be giving the responsibility of a ship to."

"For three days?" Morgan asked, laughing a little at Hartwell's concerns. "It's not like I'm ready to give him the _Oxford_, James," he said with amusement at the other man's apparent dislike of the situation, "at least not yet."

Hartwell scowled at Morgan's comment. "And what is that supposed to mean?" he demanded quietly.

"Oh, relax, would you?" Morgan said, getting up and pouring them both a measure of rum, and setting one down in front of Hartwell. "I think the lad has potential, and I want to see what he can handle, that's all."

Hartwell stared down into his drink, swirling it absently while he spoke. "Do you truly intend to make him quartermaster at his age?"

Morgan smiled, knowing the problem was about more than Barbossa's age. "He's a more seasoned sailor than either you or I were at the same age, James."

Hartwell still looked a bit put out.

"Look, James," Morgan said in a more subdued tone, "I didn't intend to undermine your authority by putting Barbossa on the schooner. I have a matter of greater importance than that blasted ship to speak with you about."

Hartwell appeared somewhat mollified as Morgan began to confide in him.

Morgan heaved a great sigh. "The Council is at it again, James. We all know that the governor is likely to be dead within a month, and the King has not appointed a replacement yet."

Hartwell nodded and took a sip of rum before answering. "And the Council is once again going to take advantage of your sense of duty and ask you to act as interim governor," he said, easily guessing the situation.

"Lieutenant governor," Morgan corrected. "There are those that still can't bring themselves to name me governor, no matter how temporary either they or I want the position to be."

"And you're inclined to do this, Henry?" Hartwell asked. "Again?"

"What choice do I have, James?" Morgan asked. "I'm in a precarious enough position between the Council wanting me to oversee the colony, and the Court falling apart at the seams as we speak. If I want to be able to maintain a balance between both sides, this is something I'm going to have to do, at least for a short time."

"It's not only the Jamaican Council and the Brethren Court," Hartwell observed, staring into the depths of his rum again. "This growing outpost of the East India Trading Company is proving to be somewhat of a nuisance."

"That is more true than you know, James," Morgan agreed reluctantly, "and I fear their influence is only going to grow as the right individuals discover how lucrative our little corner of the world can be."

"No, this is something I must do, at least this one last time," Morgan continued, "if our credibility with the Navy and the Council is to be maintained, that is. It will be easier to thin the numbers of the brethren the way we see fit to put things back in order if we do it in the name of the King, rather than risk it looking like open hostilities between the Pirate Lords."

"You mean risk it looking like open hostilities between you and the rest of the Pirate Lords," Hartwell said, now with a trace of amusement in his voice. "The other seven aren't happy from what I hear, about you taking out Alonso. It leaves the Adriatic up for grabs between Castillo and that upstart, Villanueva, since he didn't get to chose a successor before your ...protégé assassinated him."

Morgan laughed at Hartwell's comment. "Yes, well my money is on Villanueva, young as he is. He has _cojones_, as they say, and will prevail in this matter, you mark my words."

"You seem fairly certain," Hartwell said, taking another swig of rum.

"I have not the slightest doubt," Morgan said, reaching into his coat and holding out the item he pulled out of his pocket. It was a broken piece of bottleneck with a cork still inside it.

Hartwell's remaining eye went wide. "You took that off Alonso?"

"Yes, and this is what I wanted to speak to you about," Morgan replied. "I want you to captain the _Oxford_ on my behalf, and take this to Villanueva. He should know that he has the backing of the Caribbean, and most likely of the Atlantic, and the Pacific."

"What about the others?" Hartwell asked.

"I don't think any of them will openly oppose Villanueva, except perhaps, Sangachaly," Morgan replied after a moment of thought. "He's an idiot, and why Korsakov chose him as successor for the Caspian, I'll never know."

Hartwell stared back into his drink, speaking quietly, but with a small knowing smirk crossing his face. "Sangachaly may not be a bad choice to leave in place for now, as he is easily influenced, don't you agree?"

Morgan smiled. "I agree with your thinking completely, and that is why, my friend, when I finally am allowed to retire, you will have this," he said, fingering the coin that hung around his neck at all times on a chain.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:** Concerning Morgan last chapter -if you haven't done any reading about Henry Morgan, I suggest you do. Fascinating man. He did actually serve as lieutenant governor of Jamaica, twice I believe, as well as become knighted by the king. One camp of thought views him as one of the most brilliant strategists in the Caribbean, and others denounce him as one of the most infamous pirates of all time. Was he likely a little of both? Perhaps, and who better to be Pirate Lord of the Caribbean before Jack Sparrow?

--

**Chapter Fifteen**

Hector caught up with Harlow, and Cezar as they boarded the _Reckless_ and set out straight away telling them that Morgan wanted the ship brought into Port Royal in under three days.

"We can make three days in this tub, easily enough," Harlow said in reply.

Cezar nodded. "I agree."

"But can we make two? What say ye?" He wanted Cezar's opinion, but he also wanted Harlow's. The man was just a few years his senior, and had proven himself aboard the _Oxford_ repeatedly, and if Morgan had picked him for this task, then Hector was inclined to want his input.

Harlow scrutinized the ship for a moment, and turned back to Hector and nodded. "Aye, we can make two days, by my reckoning. We'll have to haul arse and sharply, but I think we can make it."

Hector nodded. "Good, bring me the crew," he said firmly, and he turned to Cezar as Harlow raised an eyebrow in mild surprise, but then went to gather the men on the _Reckless_.

Cezar said nothing, but seemed to appear amused as Hector spoke to him.

"I'll ask ye to see to the sails fer me," Hector said quietly. "There be no one I trust to do the job better."

Cezar was trying not to smile at how quickly his young friend was taking charge of the situation. "So, I am to be the bo'sun on this trip, yes?"

Hector shrugged. "If ye like."

"Would that make Harlow the first mate?" Cezar said, still grinning.

"If he likes," Hector replied, looking at where the skeleton crew had gathered. He wasted no time in addressing them, and if the other seasoned sailors found it strange to find themselves listening to instructions from the young man, it became readily apparent that it didn't seem strange to him.

"I need yer attention," Hector said, addressing the group.

"I've been set a task by Morgan, so I'll need the lot of you to move sharply. He wants this ship in port in three days," Hector said, "but I say we can do it in two."

There was a murmur among the men as they debated whether or not they were inclined to follow orders given by the young Barbossa.

Hector knew that this would be an issue, and he was already prepared to deal with it. "Ye may know that I be fewer in years than many of you," he said firmly, "but six long years I've been at sea, and that ought count fer somethin'."

Another murmur of whispered discussion ran through the small crew, and Hector spoke once more. "Morgan has said that we'll not be able to bring this ship into port in under three days," he said, looking across the group, "but I say different, and I've wagered half me pay fer a year that this crew be capable of doin' such a fine job."

He looked around the group again. "What say ye?" he asked.

The men looked from one to another, and then a crusty old salt stepped forward to speak for the group. "We ought be getting' underway, if we're going to best three days," he said with a grin.

Hector nodded, trying not to show the relief he felt that the men were going to cooperate. "Aye, well look lively then, lads," he said with a grin, effectively dismissing the group.

"Mr. Harlow," he called out, now in fine spirits, "set us a course fer Port Royal."

He turned back to Cezar, trying to act casual, but the older man knew how much of an adventure this was for his young companion. "Well done, _Patife_," he said. "You handled that well."

Hector nodded, pleased that Cezar was impressed. "Ye'll see to it that they set things properly, Mr. Silva?" he asked with a grin, nodding once in the direction of the masts.

"Aye, that I will, Mr. Barbossa," he replied with his own grin.

"Thankee," Hector replied, turning to head toward the helm where Harlow was, and then he called back over his shoulder.

"Oh, and Cezar?"

Cezar turned from where he had started to walk across the deck.

"That'd be Cap'n Barbossa," Hector teased, giving his friend a sly wink.

Cezar grinned back and rolled his eyes. "Ay, Santa Maria help me…there'll be no living with you now."

"'Tis only fer three days," Hector said in reply.

"Let us see about making it two," Cezar said with a laugh, and he went to see about getting the ship underway.

--

The _Oxford_ was already in port when the _Reckless_ arrived, but when Morgan noted the time, it was eight and a half hours after they'd dropped anchor. He was amused when Hector, after giving instructions to Harlow to make fast the ship, strode briskly down onto the dock and up to where Morgan waited, looking quite pleased with himself.

"Well done, Barbossa," Morgan said to the younger man, clapping him on the shoulder. "It would seem as if you've earned yourself a promotion."

"Thank you, sir," Hector replied.

"Take your men and go celebrate," Morgan said, and then come see me tomorrow afternoon. I have another venture that I'd like you to be a part of."

"Aye, Cap'n," Hector replied cheerfully. He went to find Cezar, thinking he couldn't possibly have been feeling any finer.

The two friends, along with the small crew of the _Reckless_, found themselves at the _Whale and Waterspout_, celebrating the fact that they had accomplished what they'd set out to do.

Hector was immensely enjoying the celebration and the fact that his shipmates kept drinking his health, and toasting him for bringing the _Reckless_ in so quickly. He was raising his own drink to yet another toast by Harlow, when he caught sight of the woman staring at their table from beyond Harlow's shoulder. Having seen Hector notice her watching, she turned away and melted into the crowded room.

Hector frowned for a minute and then shrugged it off. Their group had been celebrating somewhat enthusiastically, and had probably drawn the woman's attention.

A few minutes later, Hector caught sight of the same woman out of the corner of his eye, and it became apparent when he looked her way, that she wasn't staring at their table, she was staring at him. She turned away again, and as Hector watched her he realized that he was not the only one.

She had the attention of a fair number of men in the tavern, and as Hector watched where she walked, he could see why. She was tall and dark, with olive skin and hair that was nearly black, and even across the room, Hector could appreciate the fact that she was enticingly proportioned.

One of his companions prodding his arm next to him took his attention away again for a moment, and when he finally had the opportunity to scan the room for her, he found her staring at him once more. She turned away once again, but not before Hector noticed the shy smile before she slipped out the door.

Having had his curiosity stirred, Hector stood up and excused himself from his shipmates, and headed for the doorway where he'd last seen the woman.

Out in the street, he caught sight of her turning the corner, and she cast a brief glance over her shoulder at him before disappearing. Hector broke into a trot, not wanting to lose sight of her, and he found her waiting for him expectantly, sitting on the edge of the fountain in the small square.

She turned deep dark eyes on him, and spoke in a husky voice that matched. "Took you long enough," she said, a smile tugging at her lips.

"Took me long enough fer what?" Hector asked, approaching her slowly, thinking something about her to be reminiscent of the pickpocket he had encountered years ago.

She laughed lightly. "For you to notice me," she replied in that same sultry voice.

Hector raised an eyebrow at her comment even as she continued to speak.

"I certainly noticed you," she said, standing up gracefully and walking toward him slowly. "It would seem that you were quite the toast of the tavern tonight, Hector Barbossa."

He didn't do well hiding his surprise, and he wondered how she knew his name. "How do ye…?" he started to say, and then he realized with as much as he'd had his health drunk to, there probably wasn't a patron of the tavern that didn't know who he was.

"Alright," he conceded with his own smile, "yeh know me name, but why…?

"Did I notice you?" The woman finished for him, taking another step closer. "It seemed to me that you might be in need of some company, since you were having such a fine evening."

"Company?" Hector asked, clearly not following where she was taking the conversation. "I just left an entire table full of me shipmates…"

The dark haired beauty in front of him set a hand on her hip and regarded him with an amused pout, and it dawned on Hector that she specifically meant _female_ company. "Oh," he said, finally getting it.

She let the pout become more pronounced, and sulked a little. "Of course, if you don't like my company…."

"I didn't say that," Hector said, "but I might like to have yer name, if I'm to know who's company I be keepin'."

She glanced up at him from under very long dark lashes and the pout melted into a winsome smile. "Lilith," she replied.

"Well, Lilith," Hector said, still a little wary, "ye'll pardon me if I don't say if I think it's been a pleasure to meet you just yet."

"I think you will say it, though," she said in a silken voice, reaching up and letting a finger trail along his chin. She smiled when she saw him appear a bit flustered, and turned away, looking over her shoulder coyly at him.

"Would you walk with me?" she asked, knowing there was no way he would say no at that point.

"If ye like," Hector replied uncertainly. "Where?"

She gave him an uncontrived smile. "Someplace where we can talk," she said, sliding her arm under his and leading him away from the fountain square.

Hector swallowed hard, but let Lilith lead him along. "So, it's talkin' ye have in mind?"

"That depends," she said lightly. "You must realize I don't give my time away for free."

"Aye, I thought as much," Hector replied, not entirely sure why he was following her.

"You're one of Morgan's men, aren't you?" Lilith asked as they walked.

"Aye, I sail with Morgan," he replied, thinking it strange to be having such a casual conversation with her.

"And the _Oxford_ just had a very successful trip," she continued, "so you must have gold in your pocket."

"I do," Hector replied, resolving to continue, but to keep a sharp eye on the woman on his arm.

"Aye, I thought as much," she said cheerfully, mocking his words in a good-natured way. She stopped in front of a doorway and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to open the door for her, and then led him through into a well-appointed room.

She pointed at the small sofa, indicating Hector should sit, and she fetched two glasses of something strong that wasn't apparently rum. It smelled of anise, and Hector sniffed it curiously, about to take a sip.

Lilith laughed as she sat down on the sofa next to him, leaving no space between them. "No, not like that….like this," she said pleasantly, and she proceeded to toss her drink back smoothly in one gulp.

Hector's eyebrows shot up, and then he looked back at what she had poured him. Deciding that if she could do it, he could, he followed her lead, and downed the shot of alcohol. It tasted the way it smelled. "What is that?" he asked her, even as she poured them each another shot.

"Tsipouro," she said, handing him another measure.

He eyed it for a moment, and then set it on the table next to the couch, deciding that he needed to keep his wits about him, and matching her shot for shot after drinking with his shipmates all evening, was not the way to do it.

Lilith smiled and shrugged and downed her own second drink, the way she had the first, and Hector found that he couldn't help but watch the way she licked her lips after. Clearly she knew he was watching her, and she tossed her glass aside in a cavalier manner and laughed fetchingly.

"So, what shall we talk about, Hector?" she said, letting her hand run casually through her black silken locks. She followed his eyes to know they were drawn to what she was doing. "Why don't you tell me about how you killed the Pirate Lord?"

"What?" Hector asked, looking back at her face after wondering what it would be like to run his own fingers through her hair. "What Pirate Lord?"

"Alonso," she replied. "You're the one who shot him, aren't you? I heard so at the hanging."

"Aye, but I know nothin' of him bein' a pirate lord. What mean ye by that?" he asked.

"Oh, so you don't know," she said.

"About what?" Hector asked.

Lilith gave him a patient smile. "That Alonso was Pirate Lord of the Adriatic Sea." She could see he still wasn't catching on. "You know about the nine Pirate Lords, don't you?"

Hector frowned, not sure he liked the idea that this woman knew something about his business that he didn't.

Lilith rose for a minute, and then caught Hector off guard when she settled herself into his lap. "I shouldn't say anything," she said in her husky voice, "but if I were you I'd ask Morgan about the Brethren Court."

Hector resolved to do so, and anything else he might have asked took a backseat to the fact that Lilith was running her long nails lightly against the back of his neck after reaching her arms around him. She met his eyes with a sultry stare, and Hector found himself being kissed by her an instant later in a way that he had never been kissed by Christine.

"So this be what ye call 'talking'?" Hector asked, somewhat breathlessly when Lilith finally released him from the kiss.

"Are you complaining about my methods of communicating?" she asked him, running her fingers through his hair.

"Nay, that I'm not," Hector admitted, closing his eyes and enjoying the way she was touching him. "I just be curious about why 'tis that ye seem set on communicatin' with me."

"A girl's got to make a living, Hector," Lilith replied in a breathy whisper near his ear. "Can you blame me if I at least make sure the men I chose to be with are interesting?"

"Ye find me interesting?" Hector asked, opening his eyes again and looking at her. "Or is it the gold in me pocket ye fancy?"

Lilith shrugged. "Both," she replied, unapologetically. "Are you opposed to spending time with me because of it?" She didn't give him a chance to answer as she engaged him in another deep kiss that sent his pulse racing.

"I think not," he gasped when she stopped, realizing it was more than just his heart that was responding to what she was doing.

She pulled back long enough to give him another smoldering look, and then she pushed him slowly but firmly against the back of the sofa, shifting her own posture to straddle his lap.

Hector was feeling a bit overwhelmed by Lilith's aggressive advances, but didn't necessarily think it was a bad thing. He kissed her again for several long moments, and then let his head fall back and closed his eyes as she began kissing his neck and tugging open his shirt.

"What might your pleasure be?" Lilith breathed in his ear, causing him to shiver from more than just the tickle.

"What?" he managed to gasp.

The brief moment that he hesitated told Lilith volumes, and she sat back a little and looked him in the eyes. "You've not done this before," she accused him, but her voice was very gentle.

"No," he replied, now self-conscious about admitting it.

"Ah," she said, gently sliding his shirt back off his shoulders. "Then we shouldn't rush things in that case." She trailed a series of soft kisses across his chest, and then stood, offering him her hand, and lead him to the next room.

--

The sun had been up for many hours, and was shining in the window brightly when Hector finally raised his head from under a pillow and groaned. He managed to roll over on his back in the tangle of sheets he was caught up in, and blinked several times in the bright light, trying to figure out which way was up.

When he finally remembered where he was, he also remembered everything that had taken place the night before, and he knew he was going to be pressed endlessly for details by Cezar. Of course there were _so many_ details…..

Hector began drifting off again, thinking about what she'd done…what they'd done….what she'd said…

Morgan. She'd talked about Morgan. Hector suddenly realized that he was supposed to meet with Morgan, and he didn't want to be late. It was already noon at least, judging by the sun, and he fought his way free of the tangled sheets and climbed out of bed, wondering what had happened to Lilith.

He began dressing in a hurry and realized what he had suspected all along about her, when he found that there was no longer any gold in his pocket. Evidently she'd felt the effort she'd put into the night before for him had been worth an exorbitant fee, and she'd taken it all.

He had to admit he wasn't surprised, as he shrugged back into his shirt, but what did surprise him and not in a good way, was the fact that not only had she disappeared with all the money he'd had on him, but the medallion that he always wore around his neck, as well as his sword.

His well-made, very expensive sword, which could probably fetch a tidy sum if she sold it.

"Merda!" He swore aloud, grabbing a pillow off the bed and heaving it across the room. He smacked himself in the head for being so stupid, and fumed at the fact that she'd played him for a fool. Evidently she'd found pleasure in toying with him all night, knowing that she was going to rob him blind after she'd exhausted him.

"Shit!" he said again, hopping around a little to pull on his boots, and he headed for the door, not wanting to have to explain to anyone, including Morgan, why he no longer carried his sword.

--

**A/N:** Tsipouro is an early precursor of the time to ouzo, potent Greek licorice or anise-flavored liquor popular for shots today.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

**--**

Hector was still unhappy by the time he met with Morgan, and he must have appeared a little distracted in front of the older man, while contemplating how he might possibly find the woman who had taken his sword and get it back before she fenced it somewhere for a hefty price.

"Barbossa, are you alright?" Morgan asked with slight impatience.

His question brought Hector back around. "Aye, sir. Apologies. Too much celebratin' last evenin'." It was mostly the truth.

"Ah, that happens," Morgan said, his mild irritation disappearing. "Now, about this venture. How would you feel about going to Spain?"

"Spain, sir?" Hector asked, caught off guard by the question.

"There is an alliance I am proposing to one of the prominent Spanish captains," Morgan said in explanation. "The King grows weary of Spanish ships plaguing the colonies, and diplomacy, as usual has been futile. He has asked me to attempt a direct appeal to one of the more influential men in the region, in the hope that he might encourage his countrymen to plunder elsewhere."

Morgan knew most of what he was telling Barbossa was entirely true, but left out the details of his secondary agenda.

"I'd like you on the crew for this voyage," Morgan replied, "and Cezar as well. Mr. Silva has already indicated that he would go, but only if you do."

Hector tried to hide the irritation he was now feeling. "So, ye need me to go to ensure that Cezar does?" he asked, not hiding all of the annoyance.

Morgan smiled warmly at him. "Quite the reverse, lad. I knew I might be better able to sign you on if Cezar was willing to go."

"Besides, it might give you a chance to see Portugal," Morgan said pleasantly. "I believe you've never been?"

"Never," Hector replied, now thinking this was going to be a fine adventure. "When do we sail, Cap'n?"

"Well, you will sail within the week," Morgan replied. "Mr. Hartwell will be captaining this voyage, as I am unfortunately going to be occupied with other matters."

Hector gave Morgan a questioning look.

Morgan sighed. "While I would much rather travel to Spain, I find myself having to fill in for the governor, who's health is rapidly declining. I should doubt that he would survive two weeks. The King should appoint a replacement soon, but alas, I will be tied down in Jamaica until he does so."

"They're makin' ye governor?" Hector asked, obviously impressed.

"Acting Lieutenant Governor," Morgan said with a wry smile.

"Well, that'd be grand," Hector replied, in awe that Morgan held such influence in the capitol.

Morgan let out another weary sigh. "Not so grand as you might think, Barbossa. I'd much prefer to be left to my own business and just stick with the title of Captain."

Hector frowned thoughtfully. "Speakin' of titles, might I ask you a question, sir?"

"Of course," Morgan replied, wondering what the young man had in mind.

"It be about Don Alonso," Hector began. "Is it true he was a Pirate Lord?"

Morgan looked the tiniest bit surprised, but didn't bother to hide it. "That's what some people supposedly think," he said, evading the entire truth.

"And is it true that there be nine Pirate Lords?" Hector continued, wanting to see if what Lilith had told him was true.

"Yes, that would be the story," Morgan replied casually. He listed off the nine territories for the young man.

"So, there be a Pirate Lord of the Caribbean Sea," Hector mused. "Know ye of him?"

Morgan nodded. "Indeed, Master Barbossa, I do. He is called 'Samfi' here in Jamaica."

"Samfi?" Hector asked.

"Yes, the islanders refer to him as 'the manipulator' or 'con man'," Morgan replied.

"And who might he be?" Hector mused aloud.

"I imagine there are very few people who know the answer to that question," Morgan replied honestly, redirecting the conversation just enough so that Barbossa would feel he'd said all he knew. He changed the conversation back to their original discussion.

"So, Spain within the week?" Morgan asked lightly.

"Aye, sir. Gladly," Hector replied before leaving, thinking he'd better get moving if he only had a week to track down the woman who had taken his sword.

--

When Hector finally encountered Cezar, he knew he was in trouble by the amused look on the older man's face. "What happened to you last night?" Cezar asked as he fell in step with Hector. "Were you off rescuing damsels in distress again, _Patife_?"

Hector only glanced sideways at his companion. "Not exactly," he replied guardedly.

"Not exactly?" Cezar asked, narrowing his eyes at the younger man in suspicion. "Where on earth did you go all….." he paused, seeing the look on Hector's now reddening face.

"You were with a woman!" Cezar exclaimed. "Why didn't you say so?"

Hector shrugged.

"Well?" Cezar asked expectantly. "Are you going to fill me in?" He could see the reluctant look on the lad's face, and he let up a little. "Did you meet her somewhere or did you….?"

"Pay fer her?" Hector asked bitterly. "Aye, I paid fer her, alright."

They walked along in silence while Cezar waited patiently, knowing if he gave Hector a minute he would finally tell him what had transpired. Finally he spoke again. "You have joined the brotherhood of men, yes?"

"Aye," Hector said with a sigh, "and would've joined sooner if I'd known….."

Cezar couldn't help but laugh at Hector's comment. "You must at least tell me what she looked like, my friend."

"She was beautiful, Cezar," Hector replied, thinking back to Lilith laughing on the sofa next to him. "Dark and lovely….hair the color of ebony and eyes nearly the same."

Cezar frowned for a minute. "Wearing a red dress?" he asked, and watched as Hector nodded. "That raposa… how do you say…vixen...that was in the tavern last night?"

Hector nodded again, a little sheepishly.

"Santa Maria, Barbossa! Half the men in the room couldn't keep their eyes from her!" Cezar exclaimed. "You mean to say that you and she….?"

"Aye," Hector snapped. "I already said as much."

"She's half again your age!" Cezar said, still obviously amused.

"That need be a concern when beddin' a beautiful woman?" Hector asked, and Cezar could hear the wry humor in the younger man's question.

He chuckled as he saw Hector finally begin to laugh. "Apparently not, my young buck," he said, clapping him on the shoulder affectionately.

As they walked together, it was apparent to Cezar that Hector had a particular destination in mind. "Where is it we are headed?"

"The _Whale and Waterspout_," Hector replied. "I need to find Lilith again."

"Already?" Cezar asked, smirking as he did so.

"Not fer that!" Hector rolled his eyes at the older man. "I told you I paid fer her, but not in the way ye might think." He could see the look of askance that Cezar gave him. "She cleaned me out before morning…took every shillin' I had, the medallion, and me sword."

He wasn't pleased when Cezar couldn't stop laughing.

--

Lilith was not in the _Whale and Waterspout_ that evening, but Cezar knew who she was, and he went in to scout out another tavern across town, while Hector waited outside. Sure enough, he spotted her scanning the room for likely victims again, and he reported back to Hector as such.

She was casually drinking a glass of wine off to one side of the room, when she noticed Cezar walking determinedly in her direction. Not knowing what he wanted, but not liking the way he was obviously headed toward her, she set the glass down and quickly slipped through the crowded room, heading for the back door.

With one glance over her shoulder to make sure she'd lost the man, Lilith slipped out into the back alley to make her escape, and would have done so if it weren't for the fact that Hector was waiting for her, and he grabbed her by the arm as she came out the door.

Lilith gasped in surprise and alarm, and then tried to yank her arm away unsuccessfully, after realizing who held her captive.

"Evenin, Lilith," Hector said pleasantly. "Ye and I have unfinished business."

Lilith gave him her most charming smile. "Whatever do you mean?" She asked sweetly.

"Ye know right well what I mean," he said firmly. "You took advantage of me."

"I don't recall any complaints from you last night on that account," she replied, tracing one long manicured nail down his chest.

"Yes, well I be complainin', now," Hector replied, trying his best to ignore what she was doing. "I want what ye stole, back. You can keep the money."

Lilith gave a light little laugh. "They were part of my fee," she said. "It's not my fault if you didn't negotiate price beforehand."

"Ye took a fair bit of gold off me, and yer welcome to it," Hector said, tightening his grip on her arm a little. "Do ye not think that enough?"

Lilith turned one of her smoldering gazes on him and stepped closer. "For the first time, perhaps," she said huskily, and then she reached up to toy with his hair and pressed closer. "The rest was for the other two," she purred.

"Stop that," Hector said, taking a step away, but not releasing her arm.

"You didn't say that last night," she said, closing the distance again.

"Ye hadn't taken me sword last night," he said accusingly.

"Oh, yes I did," Lilith returned saucily, and she smiled when she knew she'd made the younger man blush.

"I want the blade back, Lilith," Hector said firmly, "and the medallion."

"Or else?" She asked, batting her eyelashes a little to mock him.

"Or else I'll take ye b'fore the Lieutenant Governor of Jamaica, himself, and ye can present yer case to him," Hector answered, knowing he had the upper hand.

Lilith was undaunted. "It'd be your word against mine, and besides, you'd never get into see the lieutenant governor's dog, never mind the lieutenant governor."

Hector pulled her closer. "Even if his name currently be Henry Morgan?" he asked with an air of triumph, enjoying the look of panic that was now crossing Lilith's face.

Her panicked look quickly turned into a pout. "Fine. I'll show you where they are," she said unhappily.

She led him to a small apartment, not far from the one he had been in the night before, and he only released her arm once they were inside with the door shut. Lilith went to the bedroom, and returned a moment later with the sword in her hands. She handed it over to Hector with a reproachful look.

"And the medallion," Hector said expectantly as he slipped the baldric over his head.

Lilith sighed and rolled her eyes a little, and then reached down the front of her dress to pull the medallion out from where she'd hidden it.

"Ye just wanted to keep me close to yer heart, I see," Hector quipped as she withdrew the chain.

Lilith found herself smiling at the younger man's remarks. "Here," she said gently, and she reached up to fasten the chain back around Hector's neck. She let one hand trail enticingly along his throat, letting it come to rest on the medallion that laid on his chest. "I guess I should apologize," she said, her tone subdued and repentant.

"Aye, ye should," Hector said softly.

"My sincerest apologies, Hector," she said, meeting his eyes with her own dark ones, and she reached up and kissed him soundly.

"Apology, accepted," he said, when she pulled away, and then he grinned as she gasped sharply when he grabbed her free hand roughly. "And I think ye've taken enough out of me pockets already."

He held up her hand he had captured picking his pocket while she'd tried to distract him with the kiss.

Lilith smiled at him, and shrugged, giving him an enticing pout again. "I guess you're on to me," she said, the hand on his chest sliding up behind his head, pulling him closer.

"Aye, I'd like to be," Hector said, flirting with her, and he let her pull him into a deep kiss, and then down onto the floor.

--

When Cezar found Hector early the next morning, he appeared to be in a fine mood, and had apparently recovered what he'd set out to get back. Hector whistled as he came to walk next Cezar, carrying some sort of blue cloth in his hands.

"I see you got your things back," Cezar said.

"Aye," Hector replied, looking entirely pleased with himself.

"And is your fine mood because you spent another evening with Lilith?" Cezar inquired.

"While that'd be true…no it isn't," Hector replied, a roguish grin spreading across his face.

"Are you going to tell me what has put you in such a fine state of mind?" Cezar asked again.

Hector's answer puzzled him until he saw what Barbossa carried in his hands.

"This be the only one she had with her," Hector said with a gleam in his eye, now unfurling the cloth he held, " and I left before she woke up."

Cezar understood completely when he realized that Hector was holding up Lilith's dress.

--

The _Oxford _set sail for Spain with a dual mission a few days later, and by the end of the first morning, Hector was nearly fit to be tied. It was all Cezar and Jedediah could do to placate the irate Barbossa before he got into any more hot water with Hartwell.

Having won the bet with Morgan, Hector anticipated having to take on the responsibilities of quartermaster as he'd promised. Jedediah was going along this last voyage to see that things ran smoothly, and as an additional emissary to Villanueva.

What Hector didn't anticipate was the fact that Hartwell, still harboring a dislike for the younger man, promptly informed him that Gray would remain quartermaster on the voyage, once he took captainship of the _Oxford_.

Hector had protested angrily, and had been told in no uncertain terms by Hartwell, that if he wanted to continue on the voyage he'd have to do so without the title of quartermaster.

"For the duration of this voyage this is _my_ ship, Barbossa," Hartwell had snarled at him, when the younger man had questioned his authority to suspend his promotion. "You would do well to keep in mind that I do not take kindly to insubordination."

"Aye, I'll remember that, _sir_," Hector had snarled in return, biting his tongue but obviously furious.

While Cezar and Jedediah had thought the matter to be settled once Hector had calmed down, and accepted the fact that Hartwell had the right to do what he did as current captain of the _Oxford,_ they would be gravely mistaken.

For the first two days, Hartwell constantly harassed the young Barbossa, assigning him unpleasant duties and tasks that should have been reserved for someone less experienced. Hector did everything that Hartwell ordered him to do, unhappy about it, but determine that he was not going to let Hartwell get the best of him.

By the third day, at the first point where Hector would take a turn at the helm, relieving Harlow, Hartwell immediately ordered him replaced as well, by a crewman named Roberts, apparently for no other reason than the fact he knew Hector enjoyed piloting the ship, and replacing him would irritate him.

"Sir," Hector protested, "I've just come on…."

Hartwell cut him off. "I am quite aware of that, Mr. Barbossa. Step aside and let Mr. Roberts at the wheel."

"But, sir I…" Hector protested, not letting go of the ship's wheel.

"Step aside, Barbossa," Hartwell snarled at him, "now."

Hector did as told, but stood his ground after. "Why did you take me off?" he asked angrily.

"I don't believe I need to explain myself to you, Mr. Barbossa. Am I not the captain of this ship? Do I not give the orders here?" Hartwell asked dangerously.

"Aye, that ye'd be, sir," Hector replied, still seething, "but the captain of this ship has always been able to account fer 'is actions, an' there be no accountin' fer yours."

Hartwell was furious, and he took a menacing step toward Hector, hand on the grip of his sword. Hector reflexively took a step back, his hand already on the hilt of his own.

"You will not spend this entire voyage being a thorn in my side, Barbossa," Hartwell snarled. "You want me to account for my actions? Well, then I shall account for the fact that you have just earned yourself ten lashes by the fact that this is your second act of insubordination in three days."

Hector was angrier than ever, and not just with Hartwell, but himself for being so stupid. Hartwell had goaded him into arguing, and this was the first punishment handed out by Hartwell this voyage. It would have been bad enough to have earned the typical five lashes for minor insubordination, but true to form Hartwell was handing down a stiffer punishment as the first one for the trip.

There was nothing Hector could do as Hartwell called for Reece, and the bo'sun gave him a bit of an apologetic glance, as he led the young man to the mast. While Reece certainly wouldn't have questioned Hartwell's judgment while Morgan was on board, he knew that the decision made by the current captain on his own was probably based more on personal dislike of Barbossa, rather than anything the lad had done.

The crew were gathering on deck, and it was only a moment before Cezar came flying up the companionway, having gotten wind of what was about to happen. He knew as well that Hartwell had probably just been biding his time to find an excuse to punish Hector.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, striding angrily up to Hartwell. "What has he done?"

Hartwell regarded him with a cold one-eyed stare. "Barbossa has been insubordinate twice already," Hartwell sneered, "and while I tried to be lenient and ignore his first offense…."

"Lenient, my ass," Cezar growled. "You've just been waiting for the right opportunity to do something like this!"

Hartwell's voice grew dangerous. "What exactly is it you are accusing me of, Mr. Silva?"

"Nothing," answered Jedediah, from where he'd put a restraining hand on Cezar's arm. "He's clearly just concerned about the lad."

Gray tightened his grip when Cezar opened his mouth again, and he shot Cezar a meaningful look.

Hartwell glared at each of them, and walked away.

Cezar pulled his arm away, glaring at Jedediah for an instant, even though he knew that he had been about to earn himself a similar punishment as Hector, and Gray had prevented him from doing so.

"You'd only make things worse in the long run for Barbossa," Jedediah said, speaking sympathetically. "He is going to have to learn to deal with Hartwell on his own, if he is going to survive this trip. Unfortunately, there is nothing more we can do at the moment."

Cezar nodded, looking strained and defeated, knowing that Gray was right.

"Come," Jedediah said, walking toward where the crew was gathering, "he will need us when this is over."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

--

Hector didn't have the opportunity to be afraid before the flogging, as he was too consumed with anger to do so. He yanked his arm angrily away from Reece, and tore his own shirt off over his head.

Reece pulled his arms up over his head, and shackled him securely to the mast, ensuring that he wouldn't fall once the whipping had begun. He gave Hector what might have been a look that carried a measure of regret, and walked away to pick up the lash.

Anticipating the first blow was terrible, and Hector had clamped his jaw shut in anticipation of the pain, determined not to give Hartwell the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

The reality of the lash biting into his flesh on the first stroke was worse than he had feared, and he cried out, arching away involuntarily, and gasping at the pain that seared in a line across his back. He was still cringing at the awful burn left behind when the next stroke fell, and he cried out again, and then waited, panting through clenched teeth.

By the third blow he'd managed to stifle the scream into a softer cry, and by the fifth, a gasp that escaped for the next three blows. He made no sound when the last blows fell an eternity after the flogging had started.

Hartwell said nothing the entire time, and merely walked away before they released Barbossa.

Reece did Hector the favor of taking an extra minute before freeing his hands, knowing it would give him time to keep his feet under him.

When Reece finally released him, Hector flung his hands out and leaned heavily on the mast, but managed to keep to his feet, still breathing rapidly with the pain he now endured.

Jedediah put a restraining hand lightly on Cezar's arm, followed by a subtle shake of his head. "Let him be," he advised. "Wait until he walks away on his own."

Cezar understood that it would look better in front of the crew if he didn't go to Hector, and it nearly killed him to stand by and watch the young man struggle.

Finally, Hector leaned off the mast, and picked up his head. If anything, he looked angrier, and more defiant at that point, and he turned sharply and stared down any of the remaining crew until they opted to leave him to himself.

He chose to walk by Cezar and Jedediah, without so much as a glance in their direction, and although his hands were trembling, it was from the rage he felt at being humiliated and beaten in front of the crew. He swore he would give Hartwell no further excuses to punish him, but he also swore that he would get even.

--

Hector had been unapproachable for the next twenty-four hours, and Cezar waited until he'd come to find him on his own the next night, moving a bit slower than normal when he walked.

He said nothing as he came to stand at the rail next to the older man.

"Are you well?" Cezar asked simply, not wanting Hector to think him too overly concerned.

"As well as might be expected," Hector replied quietly.

"That is good," Cezar replied. After a minute, he spoke again. "May I say something to you on the matter?"

Hector cast a sideways glance and shrugged.

"You handled yourself better than most men would, Barbossa," Cezar said kindly.

Hector nodded. "I'll not go through that again," he said quietly. "Ever." He met Cezar's eyes with a look that completely convinced the older man that he spoke the truth.

--

Hector's wounds healed over the next few weeks as the _Oxford _headed for Spain, and he had no more difficulty with Hartwell plaguing him with unpleasant tasks. Having felt for the time that he'd won the upper hand, Hartwell apparently decided not to waste his time haranguing the younger man, and was savvy enough to know that he should utilize Hector's talents on the voyage.

Hector did nothing else to provoke Hartwell, but even though he watched his manners around the man, and answered him politely when he was addressed, he met the older man's gaze unflinchingly with a cold stare of his own any time they were required to interact.

The trip was the longest one Hector had taken in some time, and he decided well before they made port in Cadiz, that he had nearly forgotten how awful the food and conditions could be by the end of many weeks on a ship. He decided that he much preferred life in the Caribbean, where the opportunity for making port more frequently made conditions much less unpleasant.

Wanting to pass a little time one morning less than a week out of Cadiz, which lay on the southern coast of Spain, Hector had approached Jedediah about sparring, as they'd done periodically during the voyage.

The two men had been engaged in mock combat for several minutes when Cezar made it on deck to watch the match. He nodded appreciatively to himself as he watched Hector parry and block anything that Jedediah came at him with, impressed with how much he'd improved over the past few years.

While it was apparent that Jedediah still might have held the upper hand, it was equally apparent that Barbossa had closed the gap between their skill levels by a substantial amount with his obsessive practice.

The day before the lookout would spot land, Hector would disarm Jedediah for the first time as the two men were matched again on the deck. The older man found himself with Hector's sword at this throat, even as his own sword clattered to the deck.

Hector lowered his sword, and bent to retrieve his mentor's, handing it back to him in a respectful manner.

"Well done, lad," Jedediah said, perhaps even more pleased than Hector at the younger man's accomplishment. "It's been a long time since I knew what it was like to find myself at the point of a sword that way."

"Aye, well, it won't be long before ye find yerself as such again," Hector said with a laugh, pleased with himself and in a fine mood.

"I don't doubt it," Jedediah replied, chuckling as well.

The next day would find the crew all too busy bringing the _Oxford _into Cadiz and securing her in port. Hartwell had Gray divide the crew into several watches so that the ship would always be guarded when the others went ashore.

Hector and Cezar, accompanied by Harlow, and several others that had been part of the crew that had taken in the _Reckless_, explored the Spanish city for several days, while Hartwell and Gray attempted to determine the whereabouts of Captain Villanueva.

A week later, Hector and Cezar set foot in Portugal together for the first time, when the _Oxford _had sailed to Lagos, the last known port that Villanueva's ship, _Centurion_, had been sighted in. The two spent several days drinking entirely too much Madeira, and Hector had a chance to use some of the Portuguese that Cezar had been teaching over the years they had been together.

Hartwell finally learned that Villanueva was most likely in Casablanca that time of year, and would most likely remain there for weeks. The _Oxford_ left Lagos, and sailed for Morocco.

--

Eduardo Villanueva was in fact, in Casablanca, and while Hartwell and Gray met with him on behalf of Morgan, Hector would have the chance to see his third country of the voyage.

The most fascinating things about Casablanca for Hector were the markets. Noisy, crowded and colorful streets were lined with traders, food stalls and entertainers. Merchants competed with each other to sell nuts, fruits, mint tea and couscous, as well as rugs, and herbal medicines. People were standing over boiling cauldrons dyeing wool, while in neighboring stalls spices were measured out on ancient scales.

Barbossa, Harlow, and three others from the small crew of the _Reckless_ - Banks, Starkey, and Roberts were wandering through the market, enthralled with the sights and smells. While Hector was busy eating a handful of dates, and watching a storyteller as they passed, the others were complaining about the city.

"Not the place for me, lads," Roberts was saying, in agreement with something Banks had just said.

"Why is that?" Hector asked, looking away from the storyteller.

"Look at this," Roberts said, sweeping his arm in front of him. "All of the women bloody well buried under them damn sheets."

Hector grinned at him, understanding his point. With so many cultures mingling in the Moroccan port, the men had found many of them to have embraced much more conservative traditions than they were accustomed to. Many of the women were heavily draped with robes and veils.

He would have walked away with his companions at that moment, but he saw Harlow's eyes go wide, and he turned around once more to see what had gotten his attention.

The storyteller, a wizened little elderly man in a white robe with a turban and long beard, had begun playing a small flute of some sort where he was sitting cross-legged in the street, and something in the basket on the ground in front of him had begun to move.

A small crowd had gathered, watching as the head of a large snake emerged and wove subtly back and forth, apparently focusing it's gaze on the moving end of the flute. The snake spread the wide hood across the back of its neck, and hissed once, revealing a pair of menacing fangs.

Harlow and Barbossa shared a look and watched with amazement, as the snake charmer appeared to mesmerize the snake, and eventually leaned over and planted a kiss on top of the reptile's head.

Hector grinned as Harlow whispered near him. "Looks like you have to resort to kissing snakes around here with the women all bundled up as they are."

They watched the old man lean away from the snake and look up at the crowd, speaking a few words in a language that they didn't understand. It became obvious after a minute that the snake charmer was asking a question of his audience, and wanted someone to come forward.

Nobody appeared to want to go anywhere closer to the snake, and the old man's gaze fell on the group of young men from the _Oxford_, as he beckoned to them carefully.

The five companions shared a look among themselves, deciding if any of them were inclined to venture anywhere near the cobra.

"I'll pass," Roberts said. "That thing gives me the willies. Go kiss the snake, Harlow."

Harlow shot Roberts a look that said he thought he was crazy. "Kiss the….are you nuts? I'm not getting anywhere near that thing."

He glanced at Hector. "Barbossa, you do it," he challenged, now grinning.

"What?" Hector asked. "Are ye daft?"

"No," Harlow answered, "but I figured I could talk you into it." He indicated a group of veiled women standing a short distance away, watching excitedly to see if one of the young foreign men would step forward.

"You can't be serious," Hector replied, as it appeared that the others were taking a liking to the idea.

"Go on, Barbossa," Starkey said with a grin. "You wouldn't want to disappoint those ladies over there."

Roberts laughed a little. "'Sides, you're the one as always wears that snake 'round your neck," he added, pointing at the medallion Hector always wore.

"Go give 'er a little kiss, mate," Harlow said, nudging Hector forward a step.

By that point the entire gathered crowd was watching him expectantly, and Hector looked back at the snake charmer.

The old man's eyes met his, and he nodded once, very slowly, and then beckoned Hector forward with a finger, still distracting the cobra.

Hector heaved a sigh and stepped cautiously closer, his gaze alternating between the snake and her master. When he stood directly behind the basket, the old man gestured for him to kneel down, and Hector sank slowly to one knee, watching the snake cautiously, and tensed to spring away should it give the slightest flinch.

When Hector had been kneeling behind the snake for perhaps half a minute, the old snake charmer nodded again once, and made a subtle lowering gesture.

Hector took a deep breath and let it out slowly, steeling himself for the idiotic thing he'd been talked into doing. Of course, at that point, there was no way that he would back out of it, as there'd be no hearing the end of it from his shipmates, even though none of them had opted to step forward.

He watched the slowly swaying head that was focused on the man in front of it carefully, and leaned down very slowly until he was an inch from the snake. It still paid him little mind, and Hector decided that he needed to get it over with.

Trying not to grimace too noticeably, Hector kissed the back of the snake's head, finding its skin to be smooth and cool, unlike what he had expected from first seeing the reptile. He straightened back up with infinite care, and paused again, kneeling behind the snake, while the snake charmer motioned to him not to move at all.

The old man lowered the flute and set it aside, holding still, and the cobra, after a slight pause, lowered its hood, and sank back into the depths of the basket.

Once the cover was back on the basket, Hector breathed a huge sigh of relieve, even as the crowd cheered, and his shipmates thumped each other on the back. Several of the people that had been gathered around the snake charmer tossed coins into another small basket that was next to the man as the rest of the crowd began to disperse.

Hector tossed his own coin into the basket before standing, and would have risen if it weren't for the fact the old man's hand reached out and grabbed his wrist momentarily. The snake charmer met his gaze with an unblinking stare, and spoke one word.

"Luck," he said, with a thick accent, and he let go of Hector's arm to tap his chest, and then point at Hector's, evidently indicating the medallion at his neck. "Luck," he said again, tapping his own lips and then pointing at the young man's. He spoke about something else that Hector didn't understand for a moment, and then finally looked away.

Puzzled, Hector stood and turned to go to his companions, held up by the fact that a woman in robes but no veil, stood in his path. Her voice was heavily accented English as she spoke to him.

"The old man says you will have more luck now," the woman said, looking at Hector. "He says the snake at your neck is very lucky, and that you should keep it there always."

"I do," Hector replied.

"He said you will have even more luck now that you have kissed the _naga_, and that it is a good thing that you will have twice the luck."

"Why?" Hector asked, feeling a little disconcerted by what the man had said.

The woman shook her head. "He did not say. He merely said you would need it a long time from now."

Hector furrowed his brow, wondering what the snake charmer could have meant by his words, but put the thoughts aside, focusing back on the woman with the exotically made-up eyes in front of him. "Thankee for tellin' me that," he said with a smile.

The woman giggled a little and covered her mouth with her hand.

"What be so amusin'?" Hector asked her.

"Your accent," she replied, in her own. "Where are you from?"

Hector explained to her how he was originally from the southwestern part of England.

"Barbossa!" He heard Roberts call to him. "Come on!"

Hector looked at where his comrades were smirking and waiting for him.

"Your friends are waiting for you," the woman said.

Hector sighed. "Aye, that they are."

"It was nice to meet you, Barbossa," she said with another smile.

"Hector," he corrected her. "My name is Hector."

"And mine is Amina," she said, turning to walk away, but then looking over her shoulder at him briefly.

Hector glanced once at his shipmates who were waiting impatiently, and then once back at where Amina was headed. He turned back to his friends and shrugged, giving them a grin, and hurried to catch up with the girl.

"Bloody hell!" Roberts swore, after Barbossa had trotted away. "How'd he manage that?"

The others were amused at Robert's frustration. "Evidently there's something to the luck from that snake," Harlow said wryly, walking away with the others.

"Yeah, well if he gets lucky with that girl, I'm going to be kissing one of them things myself," Roberts said with good- natured frustration.

--

Several hours later, Hector rejoined his companions, and they looked up in surprise to see him walking toward them, looking a bit smug.

" 'The 'ell you been, Barbossa?" Roberts asked, grinning at him.

"Off gettin' a tour of the city from Amina," Hector replied.

Harlow smirked at him, and punched his arm lightly. "Getting a tour of the city…is that what they call it in Morocco?"

Hector shot him a dirty look. "That's not what I be referrin' to, and ye well know it."

"Did you at least get your snake kissed?" Roberts asked, clearly not willing to let Hector off easy.

"Is that all ye ever think about?" Hector asked with a touch of feigned annoyance.

The other four shared glances with each other and then nodded in unison.

"Pretty much, yeah," Roberts answered for the group.

"Well, that be fine, no doubt about it, but a bit of conversation with a woman once in a while's not a bad thing either," Hector said pleasantly, "yeh randy bunch of horn-beasts."

"Who you callin' randy?" Banks asked with a smirk of his own. "You're the one that went off all over the city with that little princess, and don't tell me it was 'cause you were eager for some stimulating conversation."

"'Course it was," Hector said slyly with a wink. "Well ye know what a gentleman I be."

Anything else Banks or the others might have said to harass Hector was forgotten as the companions became aware of a commotion not far along the street they were strolling down. Glancing at once another, and apparently all curious, they headed to where all the noise was coming from.

--

**A/N**: For those of you that are also reading Memories of May , we meet Turk next chapter! If you havent' read Memories - what are you waiting for? ;)

Thanks to everyone who has been reading and reviewing! Hearing from you all makes writing this even more fun!


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

--

The noise heard by the five members of the _Oxford's_ crew, was coming from a small plaza a short way ahead, and when Hector arrived there with his shipmates, it was apparent some sort of dispute was taking place.

A small group had gathered around where a man of impressive stature stood surrounded by eight or nine others wearing dark robes. Two more robed figures lay unmoving on the ground. As they watched, one of them drew a sword and charged the captive, but the larger man easily sidestepped his assailant, and elbowed his attacker brutally in the back of the neck as he overshot the mark. The man with the sword crumpled into the dirt and lay there quite still.

Hector and his companions, like the others gathered near the fight, decided they were curious, and stayed close to see where things would go.

Hector leaned near another man in the crowd, who he'd heard say something in heavily accented English. "What is this about?"

The heavyset man next to him looked back at Hector. "The man in the center is wanted for a terrible crime, and these are the magistrate's men coming to take him before the magistrate."

Hector nodded in understanding, watching where the wanted man had grabbed each of the next two men who had gone after him, and smashed their heads together brutally, dropping them on the ground.

"What did he do?" Hector asked, folding his arms casually across his chest as he watched the fight continue.

The man next to him whispered his answer, looking uncomfortable. "He is wanted for stealing a young woman's virtue."

"Unwilling or willing was she?" Hector asked.

The man looked all around to make sure no one overheard. "Willing she was, but it is still quite improper, and quite the scandal."

"Why all the fuss o'er that?" Hector asked, now somewhat amused at the situation.

"It was the magistrate's daughter," the heavyset man whispered back with an air of finality, looking like he wouldn't answer any more questions.

"Ah," Hector said, trying not to smile so much. He passed the story along to his companions who shared knowing looks and smiles among themselves.

The captive man drew his sword, and cut down his next attacker. "I'll tear yeh apart at the seams," he roared, "yeh great bloody wankers!

At that point the remaining robed men got smart and charged the larger man all at once, overwhelming him finally with their numbers, and struggling to get him restrained.

"Yeh fuckin' dress-wearing pansy-assed mongrels!" the captive roared, struggling under the crush of the five men who pinned him down.

Hector started laughing, amused by the man's piss and vinegar.

"W' the fuck you laughin' at?" The man asked threateningly, glaring at Hector from where he was being dragged to his feet.

"Yer fine composure an' eloquence in the face of danger," Hector called back smartly.

The other man snarled at Hector even as he was being wrestled into manacles. "Eloquence!" he cried. "I'll put eloquence up yer arse with my boot, yeh snot-nosed jackass!"

Hector and his companions laughed again. "'Twould be an amazin' feat, givin' yer current situation," Hector called back.

The other man snarled in wordless frustration, as the magistrate's men began to drag him away.

Hector looked at Harlow. "We'd not leave a countryman to suffer at the hands of these idiots, would we, now?" he asked, even as he put a hand on his sword.

Harlow realized what Barbossa was getting at, and his expression dropped. "You must be joking."

Hector grinned at him and turned and trotted after where the magistrate's men had dragged away their prisoner.

"Shit!" Harlow cursed, and then ran after Barbossa, followed by the others after a moment.

--

By the time Harlow and the others caught up to Barbossa, he'd stepped in front of the five men who were dragging along their prisoner and was addressing them. "He's going to get himself killed," Harlow said, rolling his eyes.

"Might ye tell me what this man be accused of?" Hector was asking the group before him, blocking their path.

"That's none of yer business," the taller man snarled back at Hector, backed up by a similar look from his five captors. One of them started yelling at Hector in a language he didn't understand, gesturing agitatedly for him to step aside.

"What be the punishment fer hoistin' yer topsail fer the magistrate's daughter?" Hector asked him gleefully. "Will they hang you?"

"Not likely," the man replied at that point. "I'd be thankful if they did."

The magistrate's men were still yelling at Hector, reluctant to let go of their prisoner.

"Why?" Hector asked.

"They plan on cuttin' off me important bits and puttin' out me eyes," he answered.

Hector's eyebrow's shot up. "Well, we can't be havin' that," he said. "Yer eyes ye might do without but…." He earned himself a small grin from the captured man.

"'Twould be a shame to have yer important bits removed, but since this be none of my business…." Hector said wryly.

Two of the magistrate's men were still yelling at Hector and now had stepped forward with their hands on their swords.

"I'd be much obliged if yeh'd make it yer business," the captive man said, eying Hector's sword.

"Ye'll buy us a round or two? All of us?" Hector asked, taking a step back and putting his hand on his own sword.

"Aye, an' gladly," the prisoner answered in earnest.

"What's he think he's doing?" Banks asked incredulously where he stood with Harlow, Roberts and Starkey.

"He's taking that snake luck thing a bit seriously, isn't he?" Starkey asked, not liking the situation.

"He's going to get us all in hot water!" Roberts complained. "I'm not wantin' to lose either my eyes or my important bits."

Hector waited another moment, not wanting anyone to be able to accuse him of being the aggressor, and when the two robed men drew their swords, and stepped forward threateningly, it was all the reason he needed.

Polished steel flashed in the Moroccan sun, and an instant later, the first of Hector's attackers fell to the ground, clutching the bloody stump of his wrist, and seconds later, the second man crumpled, having had his leg gashed wide open on the return stroke of Hector's sword.

A third robed man sprang forward to trade a handful of blows with Hector, and then panicked as he found himself quickly disarmed with the point of the young man's blade pressed against his throat. He spoke frantically in the language that Hector didn't understand.

Hector pointed at the prisoner and then to his side, indicating that he wanted them to let the man cross over to stand by him. All three remaining men of the magistrate shook their heads, and Hector took a step forward, pressing the tip of his sword into the man's neck a little more.

The captive took the opportunity to help himself, and he yanked his shackled hands free and swung his fists together to strike one of his captors upside the head, sending him sprawling, unconscious, into the dust.

Hector lowered his sword, and let his prisoner join the last robed man, as they ran off quickly, grabbing up their wounded companions as they bolted. Hector strode over to the unconscious man in the street, and hooked the ring of keys at his waist with his sword, and flung them into the air to catch them in his free hand. He cleaned his sword off on the man's clothes and went to where the man he had rescued was standing.

"Here," he said, sheathing his sword and unlocking the manacles that the taller man held out. "We'll want to be leavin' right sharply."

"Not before I have the name of the man who set me free," the giant said, holding out a large hand.

Hector, not short by any means, still had to look up slightly to meet the man's gaze. "Hector Barbossa," he said, shaking the man's hand.

"Theodore Robert Kempthorne the third, at yer service," the taller man replied.

"Well, that name be quite a mouthful," Hector said.

"My friends call me Turk," he replied.

"Why?" Hector asked.

"T…R…K…." Turk explained.

"Well, than that's what I shall call ye," Hector said with a grin. "But we'd best leave before yer other friends come back."

He made introductions for the rest of the crew, and Turk followed them across town before buying Hector the first round of hundreds that they would share over the years.

--

Hector's new friendship got off to a rocky start that evening, after the six companions, five from the _Oxford_ and Turk, had been drinking quite heavily, and they got around to discussing Turk's offense against the magistrate.

"His daughter knows 'er own mind," Turk said, quaffing down another large amount of ale. "Is it my fault that she cares more for the company of men than her father thinks she ought?"

All five of the others shook their heads.

"He blames me fer stealin' her virtue, but I'll tell you, I'm not the first and likely not the last either. Bold little thing she is….right fetchin' too."

Harlow set down his own mug. "What's her name?" he asked, curiously.

"Amina," Turk relied before taking another swig.

The four shipmates all turned and looked at where Hector was looking decidedly uncomfortable about the thought that he might have been in jeopardy of losing important body parts if he'd spent much more time with the woman from the market.

"Anyway," Turk continued companionably, "it doesn't matter thanks to Barbossa….ah, shit!" He swore quietly and indicated that the others should look across the room to where a dozen or more of the magistrate's men had come in to the bar, apparently looking for their escaped prisoner.

The others echoed the same sentiment as they realized the men were crossing the room toward them, evidently having spotted their large companion at their table.

"Go!" Hector yelled, after seeing the company of robed men hurrying toward them, and his five companions sprang from their seats and bolted for the back door that Hector had made them sit near.

They got well down the street, but it was only a moment before the magistrate's men figured out which way they had run, and the six friends found themselves running back through the market, trying to put some distance between themselves and their pursuers.

They came to a point where the street ended, and Harlow shouted. "Which way?"

"Right!" Hector yelled as he bolted right, followed by Turk and Harlow

"Left!" Cried Roberts simultaneously as he dodged left with the other two.

Slowing down and doubling back was not an option, and Harlow cried back toward his friends. "Meet back at the ship!" Whether or not the others heard him, he didn't know, and he sprinted along to keep up with Barbossa and Turk.

Hector glanced over his shoulder as he ran to see if Harlow was keeping up, and he saw his shipmate right behind him, but also noted that some of the robed men were catching up as well.

"Merda!" he swore under his breath, and turned back in time to see the huge stack of cooking pots, piled up as high as his head. He snagged one out of the bottom corner as he ran, and the entire thing cascaded into the street behind him.

Turk, meanwhile had seen what Barbossa was doing, and slowed long enough to upend an entire fruit cart into the street as well. Harlow hooked a large basket running by another stall and the three pelted around another corner, leaving mayhem in their wake.

" W' the fuck yeh doing with that basket?" Turk asked Harlow.

Harlow, in reply, reached into the basket and tossed a small melon to him. "Ammo," was all he had to say, and Turk smiled in understanding.

Harlow turned as he ran, and heaved the small firm fruit on the run at the nearest pursuer, catching the man square in the jaw with the melon, and sending him veering off just enough that he crashed into a large pile of wooden crates containing chickens. Feathers exploded everywhere as the chickens erupted into a squawking frenzy.

Turk laughed heartily and heaved his own melon at the next robed man, hitting him in the face and probably breaking his nose by the way he fell to the ground.

"Nice," Harlow said appreciatively, and he tossed another melon to Turk.

Hector was trying to find a way out of the market and back to the docks as his two companions continued to pummel the magistrate's men with hard fruit, buying them a small amount of time. He was rapidly running out of street and dodged left at the next intersection, and drew up short as he narrowly missed running into the white stucco wall he abruptly faced.

Turk rounded the corner just behind him, and couldn't stop in time, and Hector found himself plowed into to wall, crushed between his new large friend and the stucco. Harlow barely kept from colliding with the two of them, and Turk stepped back, watching as Barbossa staggered back from the wall a bit unsteadily.

"Ye've broken me ribs, yeh bloody ox!" Hector said, cursing as he held his sides and doubled over.

"Who you callin' ox?" Turk demanded angrily. "Some friggin' navigator yeh must be fer that ship of yers if yeh've run us square into a wall!"

Hector glared at the taller man. "Ye worthless bull pizzle! Pull yer own mangy arse out of trouble next time!"

"W' the fuck is a bull pizzle?" Turk demanded angrily.

"Evidently not what ye be carryin' if yer ladyfriend found the need to seek me company when she be through with you!" Hector snarled.

Turk caught Hector's meaning, and dropped him with one blow.

Hector tried to sit up after being spun into and rebounding off the wall when Turk punched him. He sat there rubbing blood away from his mouth and trying to decide which was harder, the wall or Turk's fist.

"Now ye've broken me jaw," he groaned, trying to get to his feet.

"I break more'n that if…."

"Stow it!" Harlow yelled at them, and they both turned to face the dozen men covered in melon stains that stood blocking the way out.

--

"Hartwell's gonna have our hides for this," Harlow complained from where he sat on the stone floor of the Moroccan jail across from Turk.

Hector spoke from where he laid flat on his back in the middle of the floor, still in a great deal of pain from colliding with the wall twice and Turk's fist once. "Hartwell's the least of yer problems, Thomas," he said without even opening his eyes.

"I guess that's true," Harlow said quietly, hoping they would just be hung quickly. "I'd take facing Hartwell over having pieces of me cut off one at a time."

"I think I'll not live long enough fer it to concern me," Hector complained from the middle of the floor.

"Quit yer bellyaching," Turk snarled quietly, "yeh pansy."

"Shut up, ye muttonheaded brute!" Hector snapped back

"Mama's boy," Turk sneered.

"Lummox," Hector added.

There was a moment of complete silence and then Turk sniggered as Hector began laughing and then begging for mercy. "It hurts," he said, holding onto his ribs dearly, unable to refrain from laughing. "Stop it!"

Harlow rolled his eyes. "I'm glad you two idiots are amused, but what are we going to do about getting out of here?"

Hector pulled himself into a sitting position with a groan and a great deal of effort. "Trust our luck," he answered quietly.

Harlow opened his mouth to retort, and then he caught where Hector's gaze had fallen. Outside the bars of their cell stood a woman in veil and robes.

"It is nice to see you again," Amina said softly.

"And you," both Turk and Hector answered simultaneously, and then Turk shot Hector a glare.

"You must go very quickly," she said, stepping forward after a look over her shoulder, to unlock the cell door. "Go left after the second street, and then head east. It will take you to your ship."

Turk hauled Hector to his feet mercilessly by one arm, and the three men quickly left the cell.

"Thank you very much," Harlow said, running quickly past Amina.

Hector paused to thank her as well.

"It is good that I heard you were all here before my father could deal with you. Already your luck has improved after kissing the _naga_."

Hector nodded and trotted wearily after Harlow.

"Thank you, Amina," Turk said, giving her a grateful look.

"Go before they remove something we would both miss the next time I see you," she said with a laugh, and she stood on tiptoe to plant a kiss on Turk's cheek.

--

Hector thought he had never been so glad to see the _Oxford_ when she came into view as they reached the docks. The three companions halted next to the ship, and Turk spoke up.

"Well, I wish yeh well," he said, glancing up at the _Oxford's_ masts.

"Where will you go?" Hector asked. "Ye can't stay in Casablanca."

"Probably not Morocco either," Turk said with a grin.

"Where the bloody hell have you two idiots been?" Jedediah Gray demanded angrily, now striding rapidly toward the three men. "Your watch started hours ago, and Roberts, Starkey and Banks said something about you being in trouble with one of the local magistrates."

Hector stepped forward. "I can explain."

"What the hell happened to you, Barbossa?" Gray asked. "You look bloody awful."

Shouting came from a little ways off, and Gray saw the panicked look on the faces of all three men as they suspected they were still being searched for. "Well, let's get you aboard and then you can explain."

"You'd better come too," he said, looking up at Turk and then walking away up the gangplank.

The other three wasted no time in following him onto the _Oxford_.

When Barbossa and Harlow had finished telling the story to Jedediah, and Turk had corroborated it, Gray let out a sigh.

"I should like to think that this'll not become a habit whenever we make port," he said firmly, looking from Barbossa to Harlow.

Both shook their head vigorously.

"What about Hartwell?" Harlow asked, apparently still concerned.

"Mr. Hartwell has been gone since this morning, and is not expected to return until tomorrow morning," Jedediah said. "I should be inclined not to speak of this to him, this one time."

"What about Turk?" Hector asked.

"That would be up to you," Jedediah said, now addressing the taller man. "I would be happy to inform Mr. Hartwell that I myself recruited a new member of the crew, if you would care to join us."

"I'm much obliged fer the offer, Mr. Gray," Turk replied. "Yeh'll find me a hard worker and a fine gunner, if need be."

"Good." Gray said, offering Turk his hand. "In that case, welcome aboard the _Oxford_, Mr. Kempthorne."


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

**--**

If Hawkeye Hartwell was surprised at the fact that the _Oxford_ had acquired a new member while he'd been off in Casablanca, he did a fine job hiding that fact. Jedediah was good to his word, and said nothing to Hartwell about the events that had led to Theodore Robert Kempthorne the third arriving on board, and the five companions who had been involved, likewise kept their mouths shut.

The voyage back to Jamaica was long, but uneventful other than a bit of bad weather a few days out of port, and the crew were all thankful to set foot back in Port Royal when the _Oxford_ finally made it home.

Hector had promised to show Turk around Port Royal, and the two of them and Cezar walked down the gangplank together, discussing the best pubs in town. Hector would have gone along with the two of them to the _Whale and Waterspout_ if it weren't for the fact that a woman called his name.

Turning at the sound of his voice, he was surprised to see who it belonged to.

"Hector?" Christine Webster was hurrying toward him along the dock. "Oh, my, it is you!" She said, looking quite pleased. "I hardly recognized you."

It had been nearly three years since she'd kissed Hector in the garden, and he stood a bit taller and broader than she remembered, wearing better clothes and his longer auburn hair was tied back behind his head.

Hector was surprised to see Christine standing there. "Christine," he said with a smile, "why be ye here in Port Royal?"

"We're leaving for England in a few days," she answered pleasantly with a glance over her shoulder at where her father was speaking with a seaman further along the docks.

"England? Are ye returnin' fer good?" Hector asked, suddenly worried that she might be for some odd reason.

"No," she replied cheerfully, "Just for a visit with family and to look for a dress."

"A dress?" Hector asked in a puzzled way. "Ye need travel to England fer a dress? We don't have them in the Caribbean?"

"A wedding dress, Hector," Christine clarified, seeming a little reluctant to tell him.

"Oh." Hector frowned, unhappy at the thought. Of course, it had been three years, and he certainly couldn't expect that a young woman as lovely as Christine wouldn't have at least a handful of offers by this time.

Cezar tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention and indicated that he and Turk would go on ahead. Hector nodded in acknowledgement and turned back to Christine.

"So, yer engaged, then?" Hector asked, doing his best to sound casual. "Well, that's grand, Christine. Congratulations."

Christine smiled at him, and then appeared to look him over in an amused fashion.

"What?" Hector asked, watching her.

"Nothing," Christine said with a laugh. "It's just that you…seem so different, somehow."

Hector laughed. "Well, a lot has happened to both of us in three years, I'll wager."

Mr. Webster came to stand next to them and spoke to his daughter. "Christine," he began, giving Hector an uneasy glance, and then doing a double take. "Mr. Barbossa! I hardly realized it was you," he said, offering his hand and shaking Hector's heartily. "How are you, my lad?"

"Very well, sir," Hector replied pleasantly.

"Good, good," Webster said, and then turned to Christine. "My dear, I'm afraid that this is going to take longer than I thought with the captain," he said apologetically. "I'm sorry, but I can't leave to take you into town yet."

Christine sighed. "It's alright, Father," she said patiently, "I can wait."

"Or ye can go with me," Hector offered, not really knowing why it was that he was suddenly offering to spend more time with Christine. "I need to head into town, and it'd be my pleasure to escort yer daughter, if she'd be so inclined."

Christine perked up. "That would be lovely, Hector," she said, glancing at her father who obviously thought it would be all right.

Hector walked along next to Christine as they headed for town, and he spoke of his travels recently to Spain, Portugal and Morocco.

Christine sighed. "It all sounds so wonderful and exotic, Hector. I'm not sure that I'll ever get to see such places," she said doubtfully.

"Why not?" Hector asked, walking along next to her with his hands clasped behind his back.

"I'm afraid that I'll be too busy running a household and being a wife," she said honestly.

Hector laughed a little at her statement. "Bein' a wife means ye can't travel? I'd want my wife to travel with me…if I got married, that is."

"You would?" Christine asked. "Wouldn't that be dangerous…I mean…going to all those places…all that time at sea?"

"Aye, some," Hector replied, "but that's part of the adventure of it all."

"You make it sound so romantic," Christine said quietly.

"Do I?" Hector asked with a laugh. "Well, I can't rightly say it isn't, but 'tis a hard life too."

The walked together through the streets discussing Hector's adventures and what had happened to each of them over the past three years for the next hour, and finally Christine spoke up, sounding a little disappointed.

"Well, it's probably time that I went to find my father," she said. "He and I are supposed to meet Stewart this evening, and I don't want to be late."

"Stewart?" Hector asked. "He'd be yer fiancée?"

Christine nodded. "Yes, he's just taken a position in the new office of the East India Trading Company," she said proudly. She grew quiet after a minute. "I suppose I should go."

Hector was reluctant for her to leave as well. "I suppose ye should," he said softly, watching her carefully. She didn't seem to want to leave, and they stood there in awkward silence for a moment.

"Well, I wish ye well on yer trip to England," Hector said finally, knowing he should let her go.

"Thank you, Hector," she said, not looking at him. "It was lovely to see you again." She started toward him and then hesitated, and then stepped forward again to hug him, standing on tiptoe to embrace him as he gently hugged her back.

"Take care of yourself," she said softly, meeting his eyes as she withdrew.

Hector saw her hesitate, and then lean toward him, intent on kissing him on the cheek. He didn't move at first, but just before her lips brushed his face he turned and met her mouth with his own, surprising her by pulling her into a deep kiss. She tensed up at first, but didn't resist, and Hector found his heart racing as she responded in kind.

Christine finally pulled away, flustered and looking embarrassed. "Oh, my…I shouldn't have…." She was silence by Hector kissing her again firmly.

She was a bit breathless when he let her go. "You didn't kiss me that way three years ago," she said, still somewhat flustered.

Hector pulled her closer again. "Aye, there be a lot of things I'd not done with ye three years ago," he said with a wry grin, flirting with her and causing her to blush deeply.

"Hector!" she scolded him. "You shouldn't speak that way to a lady."

He knew that she wasn't as mad as she tried to make it seem. "Apologies, Miss Webster," he said, still flirting, "I meant no offense to such a lovely lady as yerself." He let go of her gently, and started to turn away. "I'll wish ye good evenin', then."

"Hector," Christine called after him. "Will I see you again?"

He stopped a few feet away with his back to her, smiling at the fact that she seemed concerned about not seeing him. "Probably not," he said quietly, waiting to see how she would respond.

"Oh." She sounded disappointed, and Hector waited to see what she would do.

"Ever?" she asked at last.

Hector shrugged. "Yer fiancée might not approve," he said, turning and giving her a wry grin.

"Oh," she said again, as she remembered Stewart. "Yes, well, I suppose…."

"'Course if ye wanted to see me again," Hector said, going back to stand close to her again. He picked her hand up and brushed it with his lips. "Ye can always find me where the _Oxford_ be." He let her go, and walked away, pleased with himself and the fact that she was still standing there staring after him.

--

Hector was too preoccupied with thoughts of kissing Christine when he walked into the _Whale and Waterspout_ to think to wipe her lipstick off once again, and Cezar and Turk both raised an eyebrow at him when he sat down at the table.

Turk spoke to Cezar first. "It's not his color," he commented wryly.

"I agree," Cezar replied, and then he spoke to the puzzled Hector. "The red looks better on you than the pink."

Hector rolled his eyes and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Merda!" he swore softly, starting to laugh along with the other two.

"Barbossa," Turk said, grumbling pleasantly, " yeh spent an hour with that girl, and that was all it took fer her to find herself unable to resist yer charms? How'd yeh manage that?"

Cezar answered before Hector could. "I wonder that each time it happens, Mr. Turk," he said, knowing he was stirring up trouble.

"Each time?" Turk asked, now wearing a grin.

"Yes, Barbossa here has a habit of finding women that fall under his spell in a rather short amount of time," Cezar said, taking a draught of his drink.

Turk sniggered as Hector frowned. "Christine and I be old friends," he said insistently.

"Looks like yeh be pretty friendly," Turk said, and Hector rolled his eyes.

"Shut it," Hector said with a laugh, and he looked up along with the other two as Harlow came to join them at their table. "Thomas," he said in greeting.

"You still here, Hector?" Harlow asked, sitting down with his drink. "I'd have thought you'd be off with a girl by now, quick as you seem to find them."

Hector shot him a dirty look, and Turk and Cezar laughed.

"That's just what we were discussing, Harlow," Turk replied jovially, appearing to have a good time amusing himself at Hector's expense.

--

Two days later, Hector was inspecting some damage that had occurred to the Oxford along with Jedediah, when the older man tapped him on the shoulder. "Looks like you have company, Barbossa," he said, flashing Hector a knowing smile.

Hector looked in the direction in which Jedediah had jerked his head, and saw Christine walking along the dock, looking up at the masts of the ship. She was alone, and he knew that she must have come looking for him without the knowledge of her father.

"Christine!" He called to her and waved, watching as she waved back and seemed to perk up at finding him. He hurried to meet her. "What are you doing here? I thought ye to be leavin' fer England, soon."

"Tomorrow," Christine replied. "I won't be back for weeks, and I wanted to see you again before I left."

"Yer father must not know yer here," Hector teased, knowing Webster would never have let his daughter venture down to the docks without a suitable escort.

Christine looked sheepish at that point. "He thinks I'm with Stewart," she said quietly.

"And Stewart?" Hector asked, thinking that he liked the idea that Christine was making such an effort to seek him out. "He thinks ye be with yer father?"

Christine studied her feet closely for a moment. "Yes," she replied, now embarrassed, but smiling a little.

"I see," he said. "Would ye walk a bit?" He led her along Queen Street, and then along High Street as they conversed.

"Will you be heading out to sea again soon?" Christine asked.

"Like as not, aye," Hector replied, as they passed in front of the governor's mansion. They hesitated together while Christine admired the gardens on the other side of the gate.

"They're so beautiful," Christine said, eyeing the English roses near the gate. "I hope to have a garden like that some day."

"Do ye like them?" Hector asked, beginning to smile at Christine. "The red ones?"

"Why yes, they're lovely," Christine replied. "I've never seen any quite so vibrant before."

"Would ye care for one?" Hector asked as he backed a few steps away from her and closer to the gate.

Christine frowned a little, not understanding for a moment what he meant, and then what he was asking became clear and her mouth dropped open. "Hector! You can't…"

"'Course I can. If that's what ye like, then have it ye shall," he said with a wink, and then he turned and jumped to catch the top of the gate, readying to pull himself over.

"Hector!" Christine called after him in a sharp whisper. "You're going to get caught!" She knew she shouldn't encourage him, but she was beginning to smile despite herself.

Hector managed to top the gate, and dropped down neatly on the other side, drawing his sword after he hit the ground. He wasted no time in cutting one of the roses closest to the gate and then sheathed his sword, stuck the rose in his teeth and started to climb back over. He'd just made it to the top and was swinging a leg back over when a servant exiting the mansion spotted him.

"You there! What do you think you're doing?" The man cried, running down the stairs.

Hector hit the ground and grabbed the flower out of his mouth. "Run!" He said with a laugh, grabbing Christine's arm and dragging her with him. They didn't stop until they got to the old church down the road, and Hector dragged her into the churchyard and out of the street. He stood panting and laughing with Christine for a moment and then presented her with the flower.

"Fer you, Milady," he said gallantly, handing it over.

Christine took it without looking up at him but she was smiling. "You shouldn't have done that," she said, scolding him a little.

"Do ye like it?" he asked, stepping a little closer to where she stood, and watching her carefully.

"Of course," she said softly. "It's beautiful." She glanced up at him briefly, and then away again as she realized how close he was standing.

"Almost as beautiful as you," Hector said, taking her gently by the shoulders. He started to lean in to kiss her.

"Hector," Christine said, somewhat breathlessly, "I'm not sure that I should be here with you."

Hector didn't let go, and still drew her nearer. "But you are," he said quietly. She didn't pull away in the least, but he wished she would look at him. He reached with one hand and tipped her chin up so that their eyes met, pleased by the way she drew a small sharp breath but still didn't resist.

"Hector….don't," she whispered, even as she let him lean closer.

"Why, because ye think ye shouldn't or because you don't want me to?" he asked. He never gave her the chance to answer, and kissed her tenderly before she spoke.

"I shouldn't," Christine whispered when he pulled away, still leaning against him with her eyes closed.

"But ye want to," Hector replied. It wasn't really a question, and he drew her into another deeper kiss, lingering until he heard the sound of steel sliding against steel next to them.

He broke away from the kiss and turned his head slowly to face the man that stood with his sword drawn, pointing it at Hector. He wore fine clothes and an expensive short wig under his hat, and Hector estimated him to be about the same age- perhaps a year or two older.

"Unhand her, you ruffian," the man said sternly.

Hector glanced at Christine, who was flustered and blushing. " Stewart?" he asked her, and watched her nod. He gave Stewart a glance and then looked back at Christine. "Did he call me ruffian? Who talks like that?"

Christine gave him an uneasy smile and shrugged.

"I said release her!" Stewart demanded again, brandishing his sword at Hector.

Hector found himself beginning to smile, and he stepped away from Christine. "Mayhap the lady wishes not to be released," he said, walking toward Stewart.

"How dare you!" Stewart said indignantly. "Dragging her into a _churchyard_ of all places to…..to…." He broke off, too incensed to speak of what he thought was going on.

"To what?" Hector asked, still approaching Stewart. "What is it ye be implying?"

"I know very well what your intentions were, you despicable cad," Stewart said with obvious contempt in his voice, prompting Hector to shoot Christine another questioning glance about his choice of vocabulary. "You pirates are all alike!"

"Pirate?" Hector asked incredulously, staring at Stewart.

"Stewart, please," Christine began, "I can explain…." She was cut off by her fiancée before she could say anything else.

"Come away from him, Christine," he ordered her, still pointing the sword at Hector. She gave Hector an apologetic glance and went to stand near Stewart.

"Stewart," she said, making another attempt to get his attention, but he silenced her yet again.

"Christine, please, let me deal with this scoundrel," he said, a bit condescendingly. He addressed Hector again where he'd crossed his arms over his chest and stood his ground firmly.

"You, sir, will regret your attempt on this lady's virtue, and the insult you have made against my honor," Stewart sneered haughtily.

"And which might ye be more concerned with, I wonder," Hector replied smartly, "her honor or yours?"

"How dare you question my intentions!" Stewart answered indignantly.

"How dare ye question mine," Hector replied mockingly.

Stewart was incensed, and threw up a hand to silence Christine before she could even get a word out again. "You sir, are indecent and insolent, and I demand you give me the satisfaction of making you pay for your insults."

Hector raised an eyebrow at his accuser. "Yer challenging me to a duel?" he asked, not believing what he was hearing.

"I am, sir," Stewart replied firmly.

Hector began to laugh. "Are ye sure it's wise to cross blades with a _pirate_, now Stewart?" he asked, mocking the other man, and uncrossing his arms.

"Defend yourself, sir, if you can," Stewart said, raising his sword and readying himself.

Hector heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. "It not be worth it, mate. Take the lady and go. I've not meant her any harm," he said with a sideways glance at Christine, "and ye'd be makin' a mistake by readin' more into this than there be."

"I thought as much, _coward_," Stewart said, "Easy enough to prey upon a helpless woman, but when you find yourself at the point of a sword…" he jabbed a bit at Hector, causing him to step back abruptly to avoid the point of the blade.

Hector looked back at Stewart with his jaw set and anger in his eyes. "That was a mistake," he said dangerously, placing his hand upon the grip of his own sword.

"Stop it!" Christine cried out. "Both of you!"

Neither man listened to her at that point.

--

A/N: Thanks so much to those of you that have been reviewing and adding the story to your alerts and favorites list! I really appreciate it! Letting me know what you like and what you don't like will help me fine-tune this tale. Plus reviews make my day and inspire my muse!


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N:** Mary, thanks so much for your lovely and thoughtful comments on the story! They made my day. Thanks to all of you who are sticking with this, and for all of you who have offered your reviews and input!

Those of you who are reading _Memories of May_ also, will recognize part of this chapter as the story Barbossa tells Madeline about how he got the scar on his arm.

**Chapter Twenty**

--

"Ready yourself, man!" Stewart cried, raising his sword again.

Hector took a deep breath and relaxed, letting his anger fall away and stared Stewart down. "I'm ready," he said calmly.

Stewart laughed at him contemptuously. "Very well, then." He stepped forward and raised his arm to strike at Hector, and immediately found himself without a sword and hopping around with his smarting fingers stuffed under his armpit.

Barbossa had disarmed him upon the stroke of drawing his sword, but made contact with the flat of his blade, bruising the hell out of Stewart's fingers, but sparing him severe injury. He put away his sword, and walked to where Christine was, ignoring Stewart where he was cradling his injured hand.

"My apologies fer causing ye any distress, Milady." He gave her an impish smile and turned to walk away.

Stewart, having regained his composure, and his sword, rushed after Hector with a cry, hacking at him from behind.

Hector drew his blade and spun to parry the blow, and continued the momentum around in an arc to yank the sword out of Stewart's hand yet again. He pressed his own blade against Stewart's Adam's apple.

"And ye have the nerve to call me coward," he sneered. "Draw ye that blade behind me back again, and it'll be the last thing you ever do."

Stewart eyed Hector angrily where he stood with his hands slightly raised in a gesture of surrender. "You just wait," he sneered. "You'll pay for insulting me, you dog. I know who you are, and that you sail with that pirate, Morgan!"

Hector laughed, thinking Stewart to be mistaken or exaggerating. "Morgan?" He replied. "Morgan be a pirate about as much as I am," he said, still amused, "and I thought yer concern was about yer lady's honor…or had ye forgotten?"

Hector tapped Stewart under the chin tauntingly and then withdrew his sword. "I'll wish ye good day, then…_Stewart_," he said sarcastically, and he turned and strode away.

--

Hector was lost in thought on the deck of the _Oxford_ some weeks later, and Turk wandered by, wondering out loud why had his friend so preoccupied.

"I be thinkin' of going home after this trip," Hector replied. " It's been several years since I've been back, and I've not seen me mother since. Christine talkin' about goin' to England put the thought in my head."

"It's just…." Hector continued, pausing in thought.

"Cezar won't come back," Turk replied knowingly.

"Aye," Hector agreed. "I'd be wagerin' that he'll stay in Padstow this time….not that I blame him. He's followed me around an' kept me out of trouble long enough. 'Tis time he looked after himself."

--

The ship they captured later would be the first one that Hector had doubts about whether or not she was a pirate ship that needed to be removed from Caribbean waters, but he opted to say nothing, preoccupied as he was with the amount of cargo she carried. His share of plunder from the vessel that claimed to be on a privateer mission herself, was going to go a long ways toward seeing him well situated for the next few years.

Perhaps well situated enough to take a wife, Hector mused, wondering if he had the nerve to approach Christine despite the fact that she was already engaged.

It was decided that Hector would take the captured ship, along with his previous crew of Harlow, Turk, Cezar, Banks, Starkey, Roberts, and a handful of others, back to Port Royal, but when they boarded the _Tigress_ they found that she had been near the end of her own voyage and had little in the way of provisions left.

"We'll put ashore on that island," Hector said to Harlow. "There be fresh water, and we can hunt enough game to feed the crew fer a few days."

He left Cezar to mind the ship and the remaining crew, and took his four other shipmates ashore that evening to hunt on the island. They set about seeing to water for the _Tigress,_ and shot several goats that were to be found a plenty on the island.

The group was making ready to gather up the two goats they had killed, when there was a commotion in the bushes they stood near, and Banks began yelling obscenities, and then screaming. In the failing light, it was difficult to see what was happening, but the angry snorts and squeals mixed with Banks' screams from the ground said as much about what had happened as anything.

The hunting party had startled a wild boar, and the aggressive animal had attacked, charging and knocking Banks down before anyone could react. He tried to defend himself from the ground, but the pig continued to slash at him with its tusks, and it opened a huge gash in his leg that began pouring blood onto the ground.

No one else could get close enough to help Banks, and while each man had drawn his gun, it was difficult to sight just the pig and not risk hitting Banks. Finally, as Banks screamed in agony as the Boar slashed at his abdomen, Hector charged in with his sword drawn in one hand and pistol in the other, and shot the beast between the eyes, killing it and dropping it on top of Banks.

He dropped his weapons and rushed to Banks, along with Harlow and Turk. "Here! Move the bloody beast!" Hector cried, trying to pry it off Banks.

Turk jumped forward and heaved the dead pig off, even as Harlow held a light up over the still form lying in the leaves that were drenched in blood. All of the others turned away abruptly at the sight of Banks, still alive and breathing shallowly and rapidly, and partially disemboweled by the boar's attack. His eyes were open but unseeing.

"Banks," Hector said, trying to get his shipmate to respond. He repeated his name to no avail. "Banks!"

Banks took a few shuddering deep breaths and was still.

"Merda!" Hector said, flinging himself to his feet. "Bloody fuckin' hell!" He knew it was a freak accident, but he couldn't help somehow feel responsible for the loss of his shipmate and friend. He stood for a long moment with his hands on his hips and head thrown back with his eyes closed, angry and frustrated at what had happened so quickly.

Harlow spoke quickly to the others. "We'll take the goats back to the ship, and then come back to bury Banks and get the boar," he said, and he directed the subdued group to carry out the task, while Turk went to speak with Hector.

"It's not your fault, Barbossa," he said, seeing how Hector was taking the loss.

"I know, but…." Hector was still feeling responsible, as he'd been put in charge of the crew of the _Tigress_.

"Come on," Turk said, clapping him on the shoulder. "We'll need shovels, and then we're going to cart that bloody beast back and roast him. Banks'd be happy if we ate the fuckin' monster, I'll wager."

When the water and the goats had been brought on board the _Tigress_, Hector and Turk returned by moonlight to the small clearing near the swamp where Banks lay while the others saw to getting the ship ready to sail. Hector had first thought to stay put off the shore of the island for the night and set sail at dawn, but now wished to put as much distance between himself and the deadly island as possible.

The two men dug in silence for a long while.

"So, yeh'd be of a mind to go to Bristol when we get back?" Turk asked, trying to fill the stillness.

"Aye," Hector replied. "Like as not I'll put on with the _Tempest_ when she makes port again. Captain Murdock be an old friend of mine, and I wager he'll take me aboard. Cezar too."

"I see," Turk said. "An' how long are yeh thinkin' of goin' for?"

"I dunno," Hector responded as they dug.

Turk smiled a little in the dark, unseen by Hector. "Goin' to England wouldn't have anythin' to do with a certain young woman bein' there, now would it?"

"Shut up, yeh poxy cur," Hector snapped, but there was a trace of amusement in his voice. "Christine's to be married an' that's that."

"So that's the final word on her, is it?" Turk asked persistently.

"Aye. Besides, what would a woman like Christine do with the likes of me?" Hector asked sullenly.

"With the likes of you? Barbossa, yeh'd be a fine sailor an' a man of honor, an' Christine fancies yeh most importantly," Turk admonished.

"Well, she be spoken fer already," Hector argued.

"But she ain't married yet, and yeh said yourself that her father likes yeh," Turk replied. "Fer some odd reason," he added, laughing.

They finally managed to finish with the grisly task of moving Banks, and covered over the grave they'd dug for him. After sitting and resting for a few minutes, they decided to take the boar back to the _Tigress_ and not let it go to waste.

Hector walked toward the carcass as Turk tamped down a last bit of dirt on the shallow grave, and stood contemplating the dead boar where it lay next to the edge of the swamp. "Great bloody monster," he said under his breath and then he paused at the sound that filled the night around him.

A rattling, thrumming hiss unlike anything he'd heard before came out of the darkness, and Hector turned back toward Turk, who had obviously heard the noise as well.

"W' the fuck was that?" Turk asked, sounding quite concerned.

"I dunno," Hector said, frozen where he was trying to listen for the sound again. Only the sounds of crickets chirping around them in the darkness could be heard. "Let's get back to the ship."

"I'm tired of……aaaaarrrrgh!!" Hector yelled in surprise as something large and powerful grabbed him by the leg and yanked him off his feet. He opened his mouth to yell to Turk, and suddenly found himself choking on swamp water as he was dragged abruptly under the surface. Intense pain tore through his ankle as whatever had hold of him in a viselike grip clamped down hard.

Panicking and choking and terrified at what was happening, Hector did all he could to kick at whatever held him, trying at the same time to grab at the shore to slow his progress further into the swamp.

"Barbossa!" Turk cried, rushing to the edge of the swamp where he'd just seen his companion dragged suddenly into the water with a shovel raised over his shoulder. "Hector!"

Hector managed to kick free of where the beast that held his leg had sunk it's teeth into his boot, and yanked back a bleeding foot. He flailed to the surface of the water, scrambling backward and gasping for air. "Shoot it!!" He screamed at Turk.

Turk dropped the shovel and went for his pistol, but Hector could see the monster lunge again. It was an enormous alligator, and the moonlight reflected in its eyes, causing them to glow an eerie green in the darkness. Its jaws snapped shut on Hector's leg again, causing him to cry out in agony, seconds before it dragged him under once more.

Turk, now in the water past his knees with pistol in hand, didn't dare shoot as he couldn't sort out what was happening under the churning water. "Barbossa!" he cried out.

Hector knew he was dead if he didn't get free in the next few seconds, and he stopped pounding at the snout of the alligator, even as it began to roll with him, and he grabbed for the dagger he wore on his belt. They broke the surface once as the beast flung him about like a rag doll, and he managed to snatch a breath of air before plunging under the murky water again.

Horrible pain seared through his lower leg as the alligator clamped down tighter, causing Hector to exhale most of the breath he'd taken. He stabbed at the animal with desperation, driving the dagger into its face and causing it to back off for an instant. It came back for his arm, and slammed its jaws shut again, but instantly released him as the dagger in Hector's hand sliced open the roof of its mouth.

Hector had all he could do not to cry out again under the water as another searing pain tore across his forearm, and he struggled to hang onto the dagger. Knowing it was nearly over for him if he didn't act fast, he flung himself on top of the great head, and drove the dagger he held for all he was worth into the back of it's skull.

The alligator thrashed violently for another moment, and then lay still, with Hector draped across it, still below the surface of the swamp. He didn't have the strength to raise himself out of the water, and the strangeness of the fact that he was going to die by drowning, but not at sea, was the last thing Hector remembered.

--

A while later, Hector slowly became aware of hearing voices next to him, and then the fact that he was in a great deal of pain. He could feel hard wood under his back, and as he opened his eyes, realized that he was laid out on the deck of the _Tigress_, with Cezar kneeling over him, and Turk and Harlow standing just beyond.

"There you are," Cezar said, trying to sound cheerful, but his eyes betrayed his concern. "We were all beginning to think you might not wake up."

Hector felt sharp pain stab along his right forearm, and he realized that Cezar was trying to bandage his arm.

"This is a nasty gash you have here, Barbossa," Cezar was saying, indicating Hector's arm. "It will leave you quite a scar, but at least you still have use of your hand, yes?"

Hector nodded weakly.

"It's nothin' compared to the bloody fuckin' mess that bastard made out o' yer leg," Turk said pleasantly.

"Grand," Hector said quietly, not really meaning it.

"Aye, it should heal alright, I reckon," Turk replied, "given a bit o' time, and yeh should have a right smart tale to give as explanation fer any ladies as happen to see it."

Hector gave him a wan smile, and then closed his eyes, and knew nothing else until morning.

Harlow, taking charge of the men while Hector was incapacitated, decided that the ship should stay put after all for the rest of the night. At dawn the crew had gone ashore and built a fire, and by the time Hector regained consciousness, Turk came into the small cabin where he was sitting up in bed, flexing and extending the fingers of his right hand to make sure they still worked properly. His first two fingers clearly didn't have the range of motion that his others did.

"Give it a few weeks, mate," Turk said cheerfully. "Yeh'll be back to being able to unbutton a dress as quick as a wink."

Hector smiled at his friend and took the plate Turk offered him. "What is this?" he asked, now realizing that he was starving.

Turk plopped down on the edge of the bed with his own plate, and began eating as well. "Roasted alligator," he replied with a smirk. "Its not half bad, actually."

Hector found he had to agree and he polished off a great helping of gator and the fresh mangos that Turk had brought him.

--

When the _Tigress_ made it to Port Royal, Morgan came to meet the ship, having gotten word from Hartwell that she'd been captured, and would be coming in a day or so behind the _Oxford._

He was surprised when Hector departed the ship, hobbling down the gangplank slowly, with one arm draped around Turk's broad shoulders for support.

Morgan frowned and hurried to where the two men were disembarking. "Barbossa! What the bloody hell happened to you?" He asked, looking over the weary younger man.

"Apologies fer bein' late with the ship," Hector replied. "We took a bit of a side trip to hunt alligator," he said wryly.

"Aye, and we voted to use Barbossa as bait," Turk replied with a grin.

Morgan laughed, glad that the young man appeared to be ok after hearing about his close call with the large reptile. "You killed this beast?" He asked.

Hector merely nodded, but Turk spoke and held out his hand. "Aye he did, and this is all that is left of the great bloody bastard after the crew ate him," he said, causing Morgan to chuckle again. A large white alligator fang sat on his palm.

Morgan picked it up and inspected it thoughtfully.

"Pulled it out of Barbossa's arm," Turk explained.

Morgan turned to Hector. "Mr. Barbossa, would you mind terribly if I kept this?"

If Hector thought it to be a strange request, he said nothing to that effect, and he shrugged. "If ye like," he said, a little disappointed to give up the trophy.

"Oh, I intend to give it back," Morgan replied, "but I want to borrow it first."

--

Several weeks later, as the crew of the _Oxford _were getting her ready for her next trip, Hector spotted Morgan coming aboard, apparently ready to re-take command of his flagship himself, now that Port Royal had her new governor.

His hand had healed well, despite the scar that remained on his wrist, and he nearly had complete use of his fingers again. His leg was progressing nicely, and only a trace of lameness remained as he crossed the deck to greet the captain.

"Ah, Barbossa, good," Morgan said as he greeted him. "I'll need the crew all on deck, if you wouldn't mind."

Hector passed the word along that the captain had come aboard, and the crew rapidly assembled to hear what Morgan would say before they ventured to sea. Hartwell gave Hector a cold stare as he passed by to go and stand near the captain.

"Gentlemen," Morgan began, "before we cast off, there is a matter I need to attend to, and I want all of you to bear witness."

A murmur of curiosity ran through the crew.

"This will be the first voyage that Mr. Barbossa will be performing the duties of quartermaster, and I wanted to commemorate his promotion. All of you here have sailed with him long enough to know that he'll do a fine job, and I'll wager, long enough to know that you'd be best off following his instruction, lest you run afoul of that quick blade of his."

The crew all laughed at that point, knowing well Hector's prowess with a sword.

"So, to mark this fine event," Morgan said, beckoning to a puzzled looking Hector, "I'd like to present him with a token of my esteem."

Another murmur ran through the crew, as Morgan turned and held his hand over his head, dangling the alligator tooth that he'd borrowed from Hector. It now hung from a small gold circlet. "Is this a fitting trophy?" Morgan called to the crew.

"Aye!" They all responded as one. The story of Hector's battle with the alligator had become a bit of a legend among the crew, and also in the taverns of Port Royal.

"Barbossa," Morgan said to Hector, where he'd drawn near, "let this always be a reminder to you of what you can accomplish if you set your mind to it, even in the face of adversity."

"Aye, sir," Hector responded, not sure he liked the fact that Morgan had just taken a large needle from Jedediah's hand.

Morgan beckoned Hector a step closer with a finger and then spoke. "This meets with your approval?" He asked, holding up the needle to indicate what he had in mind.

Hector nodded once, and turned his head aside as Morgan raised the needle and took hold of his ear in the other hand.

"May this be the only blood ever spilled between us, my friend," Morgan said fondly, and Hector gritted his teeth as the older man pierced his earlobe abruptly. A small amount of blood ran down his neck as Morgan withdrew the needle and then placed the alligator tooth earring in Hector's ear and fastened it there where it would stay for the rest of his days.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty One**

--

The _Tempest_ was very much the way Hector had remembered her from when he'd been aboard her on the last run from Bristol with Wallace.

The trip was pleasant, if uneventful, and Hector, Cezar, and Turk, who had decided to return to England along with them, spent a good deal of time telling Murdock about all that had happened since Hector had left for the _Oxford_.

Murdock asked a lot of questions, and made polite conversation, but there was a wariness in his manner that Hector knew was from the fact that he was of the opinion that Morgan was a pirate, and he was concerned about his old friends keeping company so closely with the man.

The trip proved tedious for Hector, who found it dull, and he grew more and more anxious to make landfall the closer they got to Bristol. Cezar on the other hand, seem to become more settled as they neared the port, content with the notion that this was probably his last voyage, at least for quite some time.

Hector knew that Cezar had stayed longer than was probably necessary to look out for him, out of his own concern and feelings, as well as from a desire to keep Beryan's son from harm, and he was anxious to seem him finally be able to have some time with Beryan.

It was near sunset when Hector strode up the hill from town to his childhood home with Cezar and Turk following at a more leisurely pace. Hardly able to keep from running, and only doing so because Turk was with them, Hector strode up to the door of his mother's home and knocked gently.

"Coming." He could hear his mother's voice as she approached the door, and he found himself wearing a wide grin before she even managed to open it.

"Yes?" She asked, gazing up at the tall young man on her step for a heartbeat or two before realization set in. She let go a gasp, and her hand sprang to cover her mouth, even as the tears came to her eyes.

"Hector!" She whispered emotionally, and she threw her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. Neither said anything for several long moments, and finally Hector gently disengaged himself, and bent a little to kiss her cheek.

"There be someone else here," he said, stepping aside so that she could see where Cezar had been waiting respectfully for Beryan to finish greeting her son.

Beryan's tears came twice as hard, and she ran to throw her arms around Cezar, while Hector gave Turk a knowing smile.

Once Turk had been introduced, and they'd all gone inside the house, Beryan was beside herself. "I wish I'd known ye'd be home," she said, "I would've made a pie." She bustled about the kitchen putting together food for the three men, listening all the while to their adventures as she cooked.

There were several times over when Beryan would just stop what she was doing and go to Hector and place a hand on his shoulder, or kiss the top of his head. At one point she tugged at the plait he wore at the back of his head. "What is this?" She asked. "Yer hair be nearly as long as mine!"

Hector knew she was teasing him.

"And what is that, fer Pete's sake?" She asked, pointing at the alligator tooth. "It's horrible. Where did you ever get that?"

"Mother," Hector said, with mild exasperation, now that Turk was beginning to smirk at Beryan fussing over him like a mother hen. He gently caught up her hand that had been touching the earring, and the gasp she let go startled him.

"Hector!" She breathed sharply, and she caught up his wrist and drew back his sleeve to reveal the rest of the scar on his arm that she'd just caught a glimpse of. "What happened?"

Hector shot a questioning glance at Cezar, who nodded, and then went about telling Beryan about his brush with death. His story only served to increase the frequency with which she came over to smooth his hair, or run her fingers along his cheek, much to his chagrin.

As the evening passed, it became obvious to Hector that Cezar had been much more quiet than normal, and as he started to pay more attention the reason became obvious. Cezar was much too busy watching Beryan while she cooked or ate, or spoke to put much effort into conversation, and Hector smiled to himself, thinking he would have a bit of fun later giving his friend a hard time about it.

For the moment, he said nothing, and the thought suddenly occurred to him that as awkward as it still was for him to contemplate the matter, Cezar and his mother never had any time alone. When dinner was finished, Hector stood up and stretched and complimented his mother for the fourth time, thanking her with a kiss on the cheek as she began to clean up.

"Turk and I be off to the pub for a bit, if ye don't mind," Hector said suddenly, much to Turk's surprise.

"We are?" Turk asked.

"Aye, did I not tell ye _The Golden Lion_ has the best ale in all of Cornwall?" Hector asked, grabbing Turk by the arm and dragging him out of his seat.

"I…." Was all Turk managed.

"We'll be off fer a while, Mother," Hector said, dragging Turk to the door. "I imagine we'll be out late. Very late I should think." He shot Cezar a brief smile and shoved Turk through the door, closing it behind him.

"Barbossa, what the hell are we doing?" Turk asked, following him down the path to the pub.

"Givin' them a little alone time, mate," Hector replied. "He hasn't seen her in three years."

"Ah," Turk replied as understanding of the situation dawned on him.

--

The fishermen of Padstow were a conservative, hard working, God-fearing lot, and when Hector and Turk, two apparent strangers adorned with swords and earrings showed up in the _Golden Lion_, they earned themselves a lot of hard stares from the fishermen that were out sharing a friendly pint.

Hector and Turk sat together at a table near a window, as there was only one way in and out of the pub. The spirit of camaraderie that had pervaded the tavern with lively conversation had departed when the two men sat down, and the others in the tavern regarded them suspiciously as the barkeep eyed them warily and set two pints on the table in front of them.

"Thankee, sir," Hector said, glancing around the room at the stares that were watching him take a sip from his pint.

"Well, this is a friendly lot," Turk said quietly, taking a pull from his own mug. "Why are they staring at us?"

"'Tis likely they've not seen an ox as great as yerself before," Hector replied smartly.

Turk set his drink down. "More'n likely they're fascinated with that pretty hair of yers, and that lovely trinket in yer ear."

"Lovely trinket?" Hector asked, frowning a little.

"Aye. Sweet little bit of shine- sets off yer eyes, Barbossa," Turk said, trying to keep a straight face.

"Sets off me eyes?" Hector asked indignantly. "This be a gift from Morgan hisself, ye know that well."

"Aye," Turk replied, looking into his drink as he spoke, "maybe Morgan fancies yeh if he's giving yeh jewelry now."

He had all he could do not to laugh as he harassed Hector. He had no doubt that Hector heartily preferred women, but the look on his friend's face was priceless after what he'd insinuated.

Hector's voice grew dangerous. "Now, ye be insultin' me and Morgan," he whispered angrily. "Take back what ye said."

Turk ignored his demand, having too much fun at that point to quit. "I've noticed that yeh've spent a lot of time alone with the captain in his cabin," he continued. "Yeh fancy the spot of cabin boy as much as that of quartermaster, aye?"

Hector was becoming incensed. "Cabin boy? Ye know that Morgan has spent time sharin' strategy and navigation with me! Ye dare imply ought else?" Hector stood up abruptly.

"I'll _bet _Morgan taught yeh how to navigate," Turk said, unable to hold back his laughter any longer.

Hector found Turk's comment to be the final straw, and his fist collided with Turk's jaw, snapping his head back, and causing Hector to hop around hanging onto his smarting hand.

Turk was angry at being struck, and stood up out of his chair. "Yeh dim-witted cockerel!" He roared, wiping the blood from his mouth. "Now yeh've gone an' bloodied me!"

"And I'll bloody ye again," Hector cried, feigning a left jab and landing another right hook across Turk's jaw. "Take back what ye said!"

Turk saw red and Hector found himself suddenly on his rump, sitting dazed in the middle of the tavern floor after being clocked by his friend's large fist. "Merda," he croaked, trying to figure out which way was up.

He managed to climb unsteadily to his feet, and face the angry Turk. He struggled to draw his sword and pointed it at Turk's chest.

"Oh, is that how it is?" Turk asked irately. "Going to carve yehself a little piece of me fer another souvenir? Mebbe hang it around yer neck?"

"I plan on cuttin' out yer heart fer a large souvenir," Hector snarled. "If I wanted a little piece of you I'd aim a lot lower."

The only thing that kept Turk from tackling Hector to the floor and pummeling the snot out of him was the blade Hector held in his hand. "Yeh bloody friggin' rooster! Yeh better hope I don't get past that blade!"

"Rooster ye call me?" Hector asked indignantly.

"Aye," Turk snarled. "And rightly too, the way yeh strut around especially if there's a hen or two about."

Hector stared Turk down for another minute and then suddenly began laughing at himself and the situation.

"W' the fuck you laughin' at, Barbossa?" Turk asked.

Hector put the sword away. "You and me, my friend," he said offering his hand.

Turk looked at the hand Hector proffered for a moment, and then grasped it with his own. "Aye, we're a right pair of idiots, aren't we?" He said, now laughing as well.

"Excuse me, lads," the barkeep said, having been elected by the group of wide-eyed patrons that had witnessed the fight, "did ye say Barbossa?"

"Aye," Hector said, "that he did. Hector Barbossa I be."

"I didn't recognize ye, lad," the barkeep said. "None of us did." He indicated the group of fishermen that were gathering around the table.

"Aye, well it's been seven years since I left," Hector replied.

It ended up that Hector and Turk were indeed out very late at the pub once the locals had discovered that Hector was a son of Padstow. Many of them remembered the boy who had helped on the docks years before, and bought the two friends round after round as Hector regaled them with stories of his adventures in the Caribbean.

At some point in the wee hours of the morning, Hector and Turk managed to weave and stagger their way up the hill that led home. Turk was still singing a song he'd started in the pub, and broke into a loud rendition of the chorus.

"Shhhhhh!" Hector shushed him loudly. "Yer singin' loud enough to wake the dead, never mind me mother!"

Turk sniggered. "'Tisaserenade," he slurred, weaving to his left unsteadily.

"What?" Hector asked, trying his best to keep Turk in focus.

"Serenade, Barbossa!" Turk repeated loudly. "'Tisaserenade fer yer mum." He then broke back into the chorus of the song he'd been mutilating.

"Yer singin'sounds like ye've run over a cat's tail with a horse and cart," Hector said, and then started laughing at himself. "Or maybe an ox cart, and ye'd be the great bloody ox!" He staggered and fell on his rump and sat there in the front yard laughing.

"Yeah, well betteranox than a puffffed… a puffffed up pigeon," Turk replied, weaving his way over to where Hector had landed and lowering himself with a thud to sit next to him.

"Pigeon, ye say?" Hector asked, now wiping the tears from his laughter away.

"Aye, pigeon," Turk replied. "Always struttin' and swaggerin' about an showin' off with that sword of yers."

Hector grinned at his companion. "Well, 'twere a good thing I swaggered into Casablanca and chose to show off with me blade," he replied.

Turk nodded and clapped Hector on the shoulder, a little too enthusiastically, nearly knocking him over. "Aye, that it was, Barbossa. That it was. I've not seen anythin' like what ye did to those men in all my years," he said. "Remind me not to find myself at the wrong end of yer sword."

Hector had lain back on the ground and was watching the early morning stars. "I should doubt that ye and I will ever be on opposite sides of a blade, mate."

Turk grinned at him and flopped back on the ground next to him with his hands behind his head. "I'll wager yer right, Barbossa."

Cezar found Turk and Hector snoring on the ground in the front yard just after dawn, and he managed to rouse them before Beryan caught sight of her son sleeping off a bender in the grass.

"You two are quite the sight, this morning," Cezar said as he stood over them with his arms folded across his chest, smirking.

"It were Barbossa's fault," Turk said after sitting up with a groan. "Spent the evenin' tellin' tales an' showin' off fer all of the pub."

"My fault?" Hector asked climbing wearily to his feet. "Remember 'twas ye who started matchin' old Hodgeman pint fer pint, an' no one holdin' a gun to yer head."

"Aye, well my head feels like someone took a gun to it now," Turk replied, holding his head in his hands.

--

Hector walked with Beryan after breakfast up into the orchard to the point where they could look out over the ocean in the distance, and they stood together for a while, conversing while she hung affectionately on his arm.

"Hector," she finally said, after a few moments of companionable silence, "there's somethin' I would say to ye concernin' Cezar."

Hector glanced down where she stood at his side and smiled warmly at her. "So, he's asked you, then?"

Beryan smiled back at her son, knowing that he already knew what she'd been about to say. She nodded.

"Ye said yes, I hope?" Hector teased her.

Beryan blushed a little and smiled still, nodding once more.

"Good, then I shouldn't worry so much about ye," Hector replied, pulling her into a warm hug.

"But I shall worry more about you," she said, meaning that she knew Cezar would no longer look out for him.

"Ye needn't worry, mother," he said in reply. "I can look out for mesself."

Beryan hugged him tighter and then let go. "I know ye can, Hector. But I'm your mother," she said, reaching up to place a hand on his cheek, "I'll always worry about you."

--

By the end of two weeks, although he loved being home and visiting with his mother, Hector was growing restless and knew that it was time to head back to Bristol and see about passage back to Jamaica.

The morning he and Turk were going to leave, he walked with Cezar to the same spot he'd spoken with his mother at.

"There be somethin' that I would say, before I leave," Hector said, watching a ship far off in the distance. He glanced at Cezar for a moment and then back out to sea. "I've not said thanks nearly enough….." he broke off, suddenly finding himself unable to speak.

Cezar place a hand affectionately on Hector's shoulder, knowing the young man was struggling with as much emotion as he was. "There is no need," he said gently."

"Aye, there is," Hector finally continued. "Ye've looked after me the best ye could fer seven years, and I've no way to repay ye fer that."

"Your friendship is payment enough, Hector. It has meant a great deal to me," Cezar said, finding himself growing emotional as well.

"Ye've been a good friend, and more to me, Cezar," Hector said hoarsely, trying to keep his voice from breaking.

"And you more than a friend to me, _Patife_," Cezar said, taking Hector firmly by the shoulders. He smiled warmly at Hector and then pulled the younger man into a tight embrace. "Você foi-me um filho e meu grande tesouro."

The tears that came unbidden surprised Hector, and he struggled to keep them in check as he hugged Cezar back fiercely for a moment. "Ye'll look after her, won't ye, Cezar?" He whispered, not knowing what else to say.

"Aye, lad. Always," Cezar said. He clapped Hector once on the shoulder and then let him go.

Hector cleared his throat, and roughly wiped an eye with the back of his hand, and looked at Cezar with a grin. "'Tis time to go," he said.

Cezar nodded and walked him back to the house, where he said a tearful and emotional goodbye to Beryan before heading down the hill with Turk.

The day Hector left would be the last time he ever embraced his mother, twenty years to the day from when she first held him in her arms.

--

**A/N: **Cezar says to Hector, in Portuguese, of course –'You have been a son to me and my greatest treasure.'

The _Golden Lion_ is an actual well-know pub in Padstow. Famous location of the start of the 'Obby 'Oss celebration that takes place there every year on guess what? May first. ;)


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

--

When Hector and Turk finally arrived back in Port Royal, the town was in an uproar about several attacks on merchant vessels by pirates that had come while they'd been gone, and Hector expected that Morgan would likely send the _Oxford _out to hunt down the offending ship. What bothered him more than the fact that Morgan seemed to be in no hurry to do so at that moment, was the fact that the ship reported to be responsible for the recent offenses was supposedly the _Misty Lady_, back from Madagascar after a long absence.

The last Hector had heard, the _Misty Lady_ was captained by none other than the first pirate he had ever encountered, Captain Teague.

And he'd seen Teague in the company of Reece and Hartwell, openly drinking with the pirate in public. He surmised that there was no way that Morgan could possibly not know, and wondered if it played into the reason that Morgan didn't appear overly anxious to apprehend the infamous captain.

Hector didn't like where that line of thought was leading him, and he felt unsettled enough about it that he would have said something to Turk that evening, if it weren't for the fact that he'd spotted Lilith, not long after they'd found a table together.

Evidently she'd seen him as well, and he tried unsuccessfully to duck behind Turk, as she sauntered across the room toward him.

"Shit," Hector said, cursing under his breath, when it became apparent that she'd spotted him.

"What?" Turk asked, glancing over his shoulder toward the attractive woman that was heading their way.

"Lilith," was all Hector had time to say before she made it to their table. He'd spoken of his two encounters with the woman to Turk on their voyage home.

"Hector," she said pleasantly, her dark eyes meeting his. "You had safe travels, I hope?" She pulled a chair close to his and sat down next to him.

"Aye, fine, thanks," Hector replied, keeping his answer brief and not knowing what to expect from her at that point.

"Lovely," she said, giving him a warm smile and then glancing at Turk. "Who's your friend? Are you going to introduce me?"

Hector gave her a wary look. "Lilith…Turk. Turk…this be Lilith," he said succinctly as she rolled her eyes at him.

"Charming to meet you, Turk," Lilith said, turning her most charming smile on him.

Turk grinned back at her. "Definitely nice to make yer acquaintance, Miss Lilith."

"Well, at least someone is pleased to see me," she said pointedly, looking at Hector.

"I didn't think ye'd rightly be glad to see me," Hector said, staring into his drink, "after the dress incident."

"That?" Lilith asked lightly. "Oh pooh. I deserved that after what I did to you. Shall we call it even?" She moved closer to Hector and gave him a sultry stare and placed her hand on his arm.

"Even, ye say?" Hector asked warily.

"I'd be willing to give you the chance to make it up to me, if you'd feel better," Lilith said huskily, leaning closer. "Of course, not for free…like the last time," she added. "I assume you had a good trip?"

Hector knew she was trying to gauge if he had gold in his pockets and let her know there was.

"You wouldn't mind if I checked for myself?" she asked, drawing closer and sliding her hand toward him.

Hector caught up her hand, and gave her a wry grin. "Ye'll have to trust me on that," he said.

"Alright," she replied, after thinking it over for a minute, and then giving him another charming smile.

"Barbossa, we've been here fifteen minutes!" Turk complained, seeing he was about to lose his drinking companion.

Hector shrugged and stood up. "Apologies, mate," he said, and he removed his medallion and sword and placed them on the table in front of Turk. "Keep an eye on these for me, would ye?"

Lilith shot him a fetching pout, and he gave her a look that said he couldn't help but want to play it safe with her.

--

An hour later, Lilith crawled out from under the covers and snuggled herself into Hector's arms where he lay sweating and breathless.

"Did you miss me?" she asked teasingly. "After being away so long?"

"Aye, I will now, if ye continue to do things like that," he answered her, still winded a little.

"I see you've made a new friend," she said, from where she had her head on his shoulder. "What happened to Cezar?"

Hector explained.

"I see," she said, letting her fingers trail tenderly across his chest. "You've heard the latest news about Teague?"

"Aye," Hector replied, curious as to what she might say.

"Interesting whether or not Morgan will try and reign him in," Lilith continued.

Hector frowned. "Reign him in…ye mean capture him?"

Lilith laughed lightly. "Capture Captain Teague? Why on earth would Morgan do that?" She realized by the look that Hector wore that he was missing a large piece of the puzzle, and sat up, leaning on her elbow to speak to him.

"Look, Hector," she said, her manner completely uncontrived, "I like you, and I've enjoyed our little….game, so far, but you obviously are in the middle of something you don't realize."

Hector said nothing but gave her a look that said he wanted her to continue.

"Teague and Morgan are very old friends, and I doubt Morgan will do anything to interfere with Teague's exploits. You know that Morgan is very selective about which pirate ships he eliminates, don't you?" She could see by the look on Hector's face that he didn't.

"Ah," she said quietly, "so you don't know. Hector, you know that the _Oxford_ is not the only ship in Morgan's fleet, don't you?"

"Aye," Hector replied, not liking where his conversation with Lilith was taking them.

She laughed lightly, and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "What do you think his other ships are doing while the _Oxford_ is busy being _so very visible_ to the public eye?"

Hector frowned as he thought it over, and wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to her question at that point. "What do ye think the other ships be doin', Lil?"

"Think? Why, I know what they're doing, Hector," she said, snuggling up against him tighter. "You know, you're no the only member of Morgan's crew that I've….spent time with."

Hector didn't like what she was saying. True, he knew what she did for a living, but the fact that she knew so much meant that others had talked, and he'd wager that most of what they'd told her wasn't to be repeated. He made it a point to watch what he said around her carefully, suspicious that she tucked everything away for further reference and for the right price.

"Why are ye tellin' me this?" he asked.

"I already told you," she said, pouting enticingly just a little. "I like you."

"And how many others of Morgan's crew have ye said that to?" he asked her with a suspicious look.

She grew suddenly serious and looked away. "None."

"Are ye being truthful, or do I need to watch my back with you, Lilith?" Hector asked, reaching out to take her by the chin and turn her back to face him.

"You need to watch your back, Hector," she said quietly, giving him a look that convinced him she was probably being sincere, "but not with me."

When Hector awoke the next morning, Lilith was gone already, and he congratulated himself on having left anything of value with Turk. In fact, the coins he had in his pockets were still on the table, as she'd not taken any gold for their evening together, but he realized she'd gone one up on him again as he went to dress and discovered that his breeches were no where to be found.

Irritated for a moment, Hector finally found the situation funny and sat back down on the edge of the bed, laughing and deciding how he was going to get her back.

--

Hector still felt unsettled after his conversation with Lilith, and he resolved that he was going to speak to Morgan himself concerning the matter. He found Morgan on board the _Oxford_ a day later, conversing with Hartwell when he approached.

Hartwell eyed him suspiciously, even as Morgan offered a warm greeting. "Good morning, Barbossa. At work readying this fine lass for her next voyage, are you?"

Hector nodded, and shot a brief cold stare back at Harwell. "Aye, sir," he said to Morgan, "but there be a matter I would speak with ye about."

Morgan gave him another warm smile. "What is it?" he asked.

Hector was reluctant to say anything in front of Hartwell, and the glance he spared the first mate said as much to Morgan.

"James," Morgan said to Hartwell, "we'll finish speaking later."

Hartwell nodded briefly, understanding that he was being dismissed, and with one last look of dislike at Hector, strode off across the deck.

"Come with me," Morgan said to Hector, indicating that they should retire to his cabin. "Sit," he said once they were inside, pointing at a chair at the table in the center of the small room.

Hector complied and waited for Morgan to seat himself.

"So," Morgan began, before Hector could say anything, "if I were a betting man, I'd wager that you're here to ask me about Captain Teague. Am I right?"

Hector nodded silently, unprepared for the fact that Morgan had guessed what he wanted to talk about.

"I'd also venture to guess that you want to ask me to my face if I am a pirate, and you're currently in a quandary trying to decide if you've committed any acts of piracy, yourself," Morgan continued, a bit of a smile on his face as he watched Hector carefully.

Hector paused for a moment before answering. "What would make ye think those be the questions I have for ye, Cap'n?"

"Oh, lets just say this is about the time that all of my new officers decide that they're going to ask for some answers," Morgan said, apparently unconcerned.

"Well?" Hector asked quietly, hoping he wasn't offending Morgan.

"Do you want the truth, Barbossa, or the answers that will make you feel better about sailing in the Caribbean?" Morgan asked. He glanced at the door when somebody knocked, and called for them to enter.

"Ah, good. Set it here if you will, Robbins," he said to the man that had brought in a tray of food, indicating the table. "Thank you, lad."

Morgan handed over a cup of coffee and poured one for himself. "You see this, Hector? This is the future of the Caribbean, my friend. While England is busy with it's fascination with tea from the Orient, the trade in coffee is growing faster than anyone would have thought."

He helped himself to breakfast and indicated that Hector should do likewise. "It would be a lucky thing, indeed, for those who have decided to invest in the future of coffee early, and made an effort to defend those investments."

"Yerself included, I imagine," Hector replied, thinking he was understanding what the older man was telling him.

"Of course," Morgan replied, "but you didn't really come here to discuss coffee beans, now did you?"

"No sir, I didn't," Hector replied, trying to meet Morgan's gaze steadily.

"Alright, the truth then, Barbossa," Morgan said. "To answer your questions about Captain Teague….Edward and I are very old friends, and it would be a cold day indeed before I do anything to interfere with his business….providing he doesn't interfere with mine, of course." He gave Hector a wry grin and continued on.

"As for me being a pirate, Barbossa," he said, now a bit more serious, "I suppose that all depends on your perspective."

"Do ye deny it?" Hector asked, wondering what Morgan would answer.

Morgan sipped his coffee and shook his head. "No. You asked for the truth and I respect you enough to give it to you, Barbossa."

"Why did ye not tell me this before?" Hector asked, unhappy that he'd apparently been so naïve about what was happening around him.

"You never asked," Morgan replied simply.

"Ye would have admitted it to me if I had?" Hector asked, irritation creeping into his voice.

Morgan merely shrugged and nodded.

Hector wasn't sure how he felt about Morgan's admission, and he certainly hadn't expected him to be so forthright in his answers.

"As for you?" Morgan continued, "Most of your missions aboard the _Oxford_ have been legitimate, although I do admit to being quite selective about which pirates we've eliminated."

"Most?" Hector asked, already knowing this was the case as he thought about it.

"Most." Morgan replied.

"And the pirates ye've captured were…competition?" Hector asked, now putting together the larger picture.

"Most," Morgan said again. " I must admit there were a few I just happened to find…offensive."

"And what about the Pirate Lord of the Caribbean?" Hector asked. "Is he competition or offensive?"

Morgan stared into his cup of coffee for a long moment, trying not to smile.

"Or might I be havin' coffee with him?" Hector finally added, deciding he was bold enough to make the accusation.

"That is precisely why I like you, Barbossa," Morgan said warmly. "That sharp mind of yours will keep you out of a lot of trouble, you mark my words."

Silence fell over the table for a few moments, and then Morgan spoke again. "So, it would seem as if we've come to a crossroads, Barbossa," he said rather matter-of-factly. "You now have a decision to make. Can you sail under the command of a pirate?"

Hector felt himself under Morgan's intense gaze. "If I say no?" he asked, uneasy at what Morgan's reply might be.

Morgan smiled a little. "Then we part company, my friend, and you keep to your business and I to mine. I mean you no ill, Hector, and I would be most disappointed if I were to hear that you didn't feel the same."

While Morgan's manner and tone were just as convivial as usual, Hector was sure that his words held a veiled threat.

"And if I say yes?" Hector asked, curious as to what Morgan would say.

"Then I would be most glad to still have your talents in my service," Morgan said. "You've become quite the seaman, Barbossa."

"Aye, well a lot of that be thanks to ye," Hector said, confused about how he felt about what Morgan was telling him.

"And I've enjoyed teaching you what I know, Hector. I've never had so apt a pupil as yourself. Your navigational skills are quite impressive, and I've come to value the time we've had together."

Hector was fairly certain he knew Morgan well enough to be able to believe the sincerity he had in his voice.

"I'm quite fond of you, Barbossa. You remind me of myself at your age," Morgan said with great warmth again, diffusing some of Hector's disquiet.

Morgan's voice became more subdued. "You know, Hector, Mary and I have never been able to…..well, you know we have no children," he said quietly. "I rather fancy that I would have wanted a son like you."

If Hector was confused about the way he felt toward Morgan before that statement, he was even more ill at ease after. It was no secret that he'd held Morgan in the highest regard, both for his seamanship and other accomplishments, but also for the way the older man had taken him under his wing.

"I'll wager you have a lot to think about, Barbossa," Morgan said, easily reading the mixed emotions on the younger man's face.

"So, let us finish breakfast, then," Morgan said more brightly, "and speak of something else for the moment. How is that lovely lady friend of yours, Barbossa? Christine, I believe her name is?"

"Engaged," Hector said with a sigh, thinking about the fact that he'd wanted to call on her since her return to Port Royal, but hadn't gotten up the nerve yet.

"Engaged?" Morgan asked.

"Aye, to Stewart McCallum," Hector admitted, unhappily.

Morgan's brow furrowed. "That popinjay of a new assistant to Charles Beckett, over at the East India Trading Company?"

"Aye," Hector replied.

"Don't tell me you're going to let that foppish dewberry stand between you and the lady?" Morgan asked wryly.

"McCallum has a lot of land and a lot of money," Hector replied miserably. "His family be well thought of in Jamaica."

"Is that really what's keeping you from telling Christine how you feel?" Morgan asked, prying a little. "Surely you've realized that you're not just a superior swordsman to McCallum?"

Hector felt his face grow a bit warmer as he realized that Morgan knew of the duel many weeks ago with Stewart.

Morgan helped himself to more coffee. "I also know you were seen stealing roses from the governor's gardens for your lady," he continued, enjoying the younger man's embarrassment. "Quite romantic, if I do say so, Barbossa."

"And how do ye know of the flower?" Hector asked.

"The governor told me," Morgan said slyly.

Hector groaned and let his head fall back against his chair, now completely mortified.

Morgan laughed for a moment at Hector's discomfort, and then sobered before speaking. "Seriously, take my advice," he said. "Before you end up regretting it forever, tell Christine how you feel."

"And what if she still chooses Stewart?" Hector asked, from where he still had his head against the back of the chair, contemplating the ceiling of the cabin.

"She won't even know she has a choice if you don't let her know, lad," Morgan said wisely. "I'll wager you've enough money by now to take a wife, and if it's land that concerns you, then…"He waived a hand dismissively. "That's a trifle instantly remedied."

Hector looked puzzled at Morgan's statement, and Morgan smiled at his confusion.

"Barbossa, I'd be more than willing to help you in that area. I know of a small coffee plantation, as a matter of fact, that may just need a new owner," Morgan said evenly. "I could put the deed in your hands as early as tomorrow."

Hector wasn't very successful at keeping his mouth from dropping open. "I've no way to pay fer that sort of….." Morgan cut him off with another dismissive gesture.

"I would consider it a gift between friends," Morgan said, "and a wedding gift if you are successful in your endeavor."

"And if I not be inclined to sail under the command of a pirate?" Hector asked warily.

"Surely piracy has nothing to do with whether or not we remain friends?" Morgan asked, seeming genuinely concerned.

"I feel as if ye be sincere in all ye say, and yet I know that ye manipulate me just the same," Hector said with another frustrated sigh.

"That would be true," Morgan said honestly.

"Yer offer's a hard one to resist," Hector said, getting up from his chair to take his leave.

Morgan's answer as he left was simple. "I know."

--

**A/N:** Regarding Charles Beckett -Most of you already know that I've woven in an older brother to Cutler Beckett for the purpose of the plot of _Memories of May,_ and his character stays in the background of this story for continuity.


	23. Chapter 23

Thank you to Mary and Jolene for their very thoughtful reviews! An thank you, as usual to everyone who has left me feedback! :)

Disclaimer: Don't own PotC or the characters. Just borrowed Hector for a while. He says he doesn't mind hanging around because I make a mean apple pie. ;)

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

--

Several weeks later, Turk sat across the table from a despondent Hector, watching his friend drown his sorrows in yet another round.

He'd asked Christine to marry him, and although she professed that she certainly did care about him, she wouldn't desert Stewart only a month before her wedding. He supposed he didn't blame her, but that didn't mean he had to like her decision.

"Cheer up, Barbossa," Turk said pleasantly, "there be plenty of women who fancy yer company."

Hector merely shot him an inebriated glare, and tossed back the rest of his current round. "If I pay them," he growled, still bitter at being turned down.

"Yeh know that's not what I meant, yeh stupid git," Turk said. "Things'll look better tomorrow."

"She'll be married by tomorrow," Hector lamented.

"Yeh jus' haven't found the right woman yet, Barbossa. Trust me."

Hector, not wanting to hear Turk's optimism at that point, snarled at him wordlessly and rose to his feet, slamming the empty mug on the table and stalking from the pub.

--

If Hector had been on the fence about whether or not to remain on the _Oxford_, it was the fact that Christine married Stewart that tipped the scales in favor of him staying. With Morgan declaring to his ships that the EITC vessels were considered fair game, Hector found the idea of taking down the Company's ships appealing, as it would give him some small measure of satisfaction in striking a blow indirectly at McCallum.

Morgan's only specification was that any EITC vessel that was looted, was also sunk in an effort to diminish the company's influence in the region, but the only ship he wouldn't have involved in the conflict was the _Oxford_.

Both Turk and Harlow made the observation that Hector was still withdrawn and taciturn, even several months after the wedding had occurred, and it was becoming apparent that there was soon going to be more trouble between Hartwell and him with the way he started disregarding Morgan's first mate's orders.

It was only Morgan's presence that stayed Hartwell's hand, and the fact that he seemed to favor Barbossa did nothing to improve Hartwell's disposition either.

Six months later would come the day that would start a downward spiral of despair and misfortune that would change Hector's life forever.

--

The day came when the _Tempest_ made port from Bristol, not far from where the _Oxford_ was tied up, and Hector waved across to where he could see Murdock standing on her deck. Murdock returned the greeting, although in a subdued way, and Hector found his reserved greeting odd.

He was busy giving instructions to a pair of his crew several minutes later when he became away of someone approaching him across the deck. Looking over, he was shocked to see Cezar, and smiled broadly for the first time in months.

"What in the blazes are ye doin' here?" he asked, quickly crossing to where the older man waited. He clapped Cezar on the shoulder. "Ye missed me already?"

Cezar gave him a brief smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Hector, it is good to see you, my friend," he said, sounding subdued and careworn, "but I need to speak to you."

Hector frowned at Cezar's manner, thinking all at once he didn't like the idea that Cezar had left Padstow to come all the way to Jamaica so soon. "What is it?" he asked, seeing the haunted look in the older man's eyes.

Cezar took a deep breath and let it out, visibly steeling himself for what he had to say. "Your mother," was all he managed to say, in a voice that was strangled and hoarse.

Hector felt an unpleasant chill crawl up the back of his neck, and his manner became more insistent. "What about her, Cezar?" When Cezar paused too long, struggling to find the right words, Hector grabbed him by the arm. "What's wrong with me mother?" he whispered angrily.

Cezar gently placed his hand over the one Hector had on his arm. "She's dead, Hector," he said, obviously struggling with great emotion.

"What?" Hector gasped, thinking he'd misunderstood. "What did ye say?"

"There was a fire, Hector…..in the church….she… no one could get out…" Cezar croaked.

Hector let go of Cezar's arm and took an unsteady step back. "A fire?" he repeated in shock and disbelief.

Cezar watched him run a hand back through his hair, as the expression of great pain crossed his features. He watched the younger man clench his fists at his sides and close his eyes, struggling to comprehend what he'd just been told.

He knew Hector well enough to know there was a storm brewing below the surface as the younger man's hands began to shake visibly.

"What happened?" Hector asked in a deadly whisper.

"Lightning," Cezar answered. "The entrance to the old church fairly exploded when it struck, and the fire…..spread almost instantly."

"How did you get out?" Hector asked, opening his eyes and staring Cezar down.

"I never went with her," Cezar confessed. "She never made it an issue between us."

Still growing more angry and grief-stricken, Hector grabbed Cezar by the front of his shirt. "Then why did ye not get her out?"

"Hector," Cezar said, making no attempt at freeing himself, "the church is in the village…you know how far down the hill…"

"I know ye should have been there!!" Hector cried, exploding at all once, and causing crewmembers to glance across the deck. He grabbed Cezar with both hands. "I left ye to take care of her! You were supposed to take care of her!"

Hector's fist collided with Cezar's jaw and the older man staggered back. "Hector," he began, understanding the younger man's grief.

"Ye bloody well should have been with her!" Hector cried, flinging himself on Cezar again in his frustration and angst.

Two sets of hands grabbed him before he could strike Cezar again, and Turk and Harlow dragged him backwards.

"Get off me!" Hector screamed, trying to break free. "Get the bloody fuckin' hell off me!"

With the commotion of Hector yelling at Cezar, and Turk and Harlow yelling at the struggling Hector to calm down, Hartwell appeared on deck to see what was going on. When he saw that Barbossa was likely the cause of the disruption, he strode quickly over to berate him for creating such a disturbance.

"Barbossa!" he spat, angrily. "What is the meaning of th…"

Hector made a supreme effort and freed himself from Harlow, and his fist collided with Hartwell's chin, sending the first mate staggering back several paces.

Turk let go of Hector momentarily, thinking to grab the furious Hartwell, but flung himself quickly on Hector again, along with Cezar and Harlow, when Hector drew his sword.

Hartwell had drawn his also, and might have still gone after Hector if it weren't for the fact that Morgan stepped in front of him at that moment.

"What the hell is going on here?" Morgan demanded, standing in the middle of the deck hatless and in shirtsleeves.

Hartwell was outraged. "That idiot struck me!" he cried, indicating the blood on his lip. "Insubordinate whelp!"

"Whelp?" Hector retorted angrily. "I'll show ye what this whelp's blade taste's like!" The others had to redouble their efforts to restrain him, finally managing to wrestle the sword from his hand.

"Stop it!" Morgan ordered. "All of you!" He turned to Hartwell. "Off!" he spat, pointing to the gangplank. "I'll speak with you later!"

He turned back to the struggling foursome. "Barbossa! My cabin, now!"

When Hartwell had sheathed his sword and stormed angrily off the ship, the others finally let up on Hector and he yanked his arm away from Turk with a last sneer, following Morgan to his cabin. Cezar decided that it would be best if he went along, and shut the door behind the three of them.

Morgan flung himself into a chair and sighed heavily. "Would someone please explain what just happened?"

His anger now receding and being replaced by overwhelming grief again, Hector said nothing, and went to sit heavily in a chair opposite Morgan, staring blankly at the table.

Cezar met Morgan's gaze. "Hector just found out that his mother is dead," he said weakly.

Morgan looked surprised for just a moment, and then comprehended what his young protégé must be going through. "Ah, I see," he said. "This sort of thing is a great blow to all of us, Barbossa. You have my sincerest condolences."

Hector said nothing as Morgan rose and put a hand on his shoulder briefly, and then left him with Cezar alone.

A long silence fell in the cabin between the two men before Cezar spoke again. "If there was anything I could have done, Hector," he said, his own grief evident in his voice. "Your mother….Beryan….meant the world to me…."

Hector said nothing, at that point fighting back angry, frustrated grief-filled tears, still angry at Cezar, and full of guilt for being so. He struggled to comprehend that he'd seen his mother for the last time, and that he didn't have a chance to say goodbye. His own guilt at being away when she had died compounded the anguish he felt.

Cezar, desperate to offer some comfort to the young man who had been like a son to him, put a hand on Hector's shoulder where he sat. "She loved you, Hector."

"You should have saved her," Hector whispered hoarsely, staring blankly ahead, tears now streaming down his face. Cezar dropped to his knees in front of Hector's chair. "Why didn't ye save her?" he asked, meeting Cezar's own tear-filled eyes, and finally breaking down.

"Hector….I would have gladly traded places with her," Cezar said emotionally. "She meant everything to me. The best days of my life have been these past months with her…."

Hector knew it was true. He knew that Cezar loved his mother, and would have done anything in his power to save her, but his own grief was still too fresh for him to admit it yet. He merely glared at Cezar through his tears as he stood, and left the cabin.

Turk and Harlow stood together, and Hector said nothing as he silently took back the sword that Turk handed him, and left the ship, followed by the concerned looks of his two friends.

--

Hours later, Hector was still wandering the streets of Port Royal aimlessly after doing his best to drown his sorrow in the first pub he'd come to. He finally found himself wandering along before the entrance to a great house, and looked up in surprise when he heard a woman call his name.

"Hector?" It was Christine, coming toward him from the grounds of the McCallum estate.

He turned away, not wanting to speak with her after as much as he'd had to drink.

"Hector!" she called, hurrying after him.

"Go away," he said as she caught up to him.

"What's wrong?" she asked, seeing that he looked awful, and surprised at the tone that he used with her.

"Nothin'," he growled, weaving a little as he walked.

"Hector, you're drunk," Christine said, obvious distaste in her voice.

"Well, ye be quite observant," he said sarcastically, turning on her and snarling in her face. He wove a little to his left, and she grabbed his arm, fearing he was going to fall.

"Oh, Hector," she said, obviously concerned, "look at you. You look terrible."

"And what do ye care?" he asked, pulling his arm away.

"I do care," she said softly, putting her hand back on his arm to steady him again. His gaze went to her hand on his sleeve, and he frowned.

"Hector, what's wrong?" she asked, sensing there was something more going on than him overindulging at the pub.

Hector didn't pull his arm away. "Me mother," he said unevenly. "She's dead."

Christine's eyes went wide. "Oh, Hector…I'm so sorry!" she said sympathetically, taking both of his hands in hers. "What happened?"

He frowned, starting to feel distraught again as he told her of the fire. "I didn't get to say goodbye," he said hoarsely, tears once again in his eyes.

Christine could see how much pain he was in, and she quickly embraced him, trying to steady him and let him know someone cared…that she cared.

Hector came undone at last, between the influence of the alcohol and Christine's embrace, and he broke down sobbing, clinging to her in the middle of the darkening street.

"Shhh," she said, gently stroking his hair, wishing there was more she could do to make him feel better. "It's alright. We should get you inside. You can't wander around the way you are."

Hector pulled back, and wiped his tears away roughly with the back of his hand, angry with himself for showing such emotion. "I'll be fine," he said.

"You're not fine," she insisted, reaching up to touch his face, "and I'm worried about you."

"Are ye?" he asked, meeting her gaze.

"Of course," she said quietly, not moving her hand. He wanted her to put her arms around him again, but knew it would be wrong, and he gently removed her hand from his cheek.

"I need to go," he said, starting to turn away.

"You should come inside," she said, putting her hands on his arms to stop him. "I don't want you wandering around like this."

A man's voice spoke up, and Hector recognized it as Stewart's. "Just what is going on here?" he demanded pompously, striding up to and glaring at Christine.

"Nothing, Stewart," Christine replied. "I was just speaking with Hector."

"Speaking?" Stewart asked suspiciously, eyeing where she'd had her hand on Hector's arm.

"Yes, Stewart," Christine said defensively. "Speaking." She obviously was irritated with him.

"She's done nothing improper," Hector said angrily, coming to her defense.

Stewart wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Just being seen in your company is improper, Barbossa." He took Christine by the arm. "Come. You're done speaking with this drunkard."

She pulled her arm free. "I'm done speaking with him when I decide, Stewart. I'll be along momentarily."

He grabbed her arm again. "You'll come along now, Christine. I'll not have my wife dishonoring my name by being seen with the likes of him."

"Let go," Christine said, trying to draw back angrily.

"Oh, be reasonable," Stewart said with haughty exasperation as he tried to lead her away again.

"You're hurting my arm!" Christine gasped as Stewart tightened his grip.

Steel slid against steel as Hector drew his sword. "She said let go," he said dangerously, eyeing Stewart with great animosity.

Stewart did, and seeing that Hector was obviously inebriated, drew his own sword again.

Christine, alarmed by the impending confrontation, grabbed Stewart by the arm. "Don't," she said. "I'll come in."

Stewart smiled unpleasantly and shrugged her off carelessly, advancing on Hector with his sword. "You'll not come near my wife again, Barbossa."

Christine grabbed Stewart's arm again, trying to drag him back. "Stewart, don't!"

Furious that he perceived her as dishonoring him by being seen with Hector, he shoved her away too roughly, and she fell with a cry to the ground.

Hector, still emotionally unstable from his recent loss and too much alcohol, and bearing great animosity for Stewart for taking Christine from him, had all the excuse he needed when Stewart was too harsh with her, and a flash of polished steel later, Stewart hit the ground heavily next to his wife, bleeding heavily from the fatal wound through his neck.

It was only Christine's screams that sobered him enough to make him realize he was in a great deal of trouble.

--

Hector looked up from where he sat propped up against the stone wall of the cell he'd been sitting in for a day and a half when he heard the clang of a steel door. He was disheveled and dirty from being bodily dragged to the jail after he'd killed Stewart in a drunken rage, and his long hair hung in strands about his face.

Turk stood on the other side of the bars. "Yeh look like fuckin' 'ell, Barbossa."

Hector shrugged one shoulder apathetically.

"We're puttin' to sea today," Turk said, "jus' as soon as yer outta here."

"Unlikely that be today," Hector said wearily.

Turk winked at him. "If Morgan has anything to say, it will be. Cezar has him speakin' with the governor himself about the matter."

Hector looked mildly surprised, but said nothing.

"Look," Turk said quietly, "I know yeh've had a rough go of things lately…"

"Really?" Hector asked sarcastically. "Ye mean jus' because me mother's dead, I'm in jail, I've killed a man in cold blood, the woman I love hates me, and me best mates are a bunch of bloody fuckin' pirates?"

"Yeh forgot the fact that yeh look like shit and smell like donkey piss," Turk added wryly.

They both looked up when the outer door clanged again, and Morgan strode in with Harlow and Cezar. "Time to go," he said, and he unlocked the cell door as Hector got to his feet.

The group exited the jail and headed for the _Oxford_ as Morgan explained what had happened. "I've had a word with the governor, and he's suspended any charges against you on the basis you were acting in self defense."

"Self defense?" Hector asked. "But I drew first."

"That's not what Christine said," Morgan replied. "Be thankful she cares about you, Barbossa. She testified that McCallum drew first, and you were defending her and yourself."

Hector nodded, understanding. "'Tis a debt she owed me, nothin' more," he said.

"Yes, well, either way what's done is done," Morgan replied as they arrived at the ship, "and I've promised the governor there'll be no more trouble on your part."

"There's just one problem," Morgan said, sounding genuinely concerned. "The governor was understanding enough of the situation, but Charles Beckett wasn't. He insisted that you be punished for killing his assistant, McCallum, and he's threatened to hunt you down and bring you to justice himself, using the resources of the East India Trading Company."

Hector frowned. "Even if I be aboard the _Oxford_? He'd dare?"

Morgan smiled. "You're his perfect excuse for openly waging war against my ship. He wouldn't dare otherwise, with the fine upstanding reputation she has with the governor and the Jamaican council as a defender of the colony against pirates."

"And ye find yerself smilin' about it?" Hector asked, understanding well that the _Oxford_ provided a smokescreen of popular public opinion for Morgan's other activities.

Morgan continued to grin. "If Beckett goes on the offensive, you'd be my perfect excuse to declare war on the EITC, Barbossa."

"Wonderful," Hector replied, not really meaning it. "Just what I be needin' on top of everythin' else."

"Tell 'im the best bit o' news, Cap'n," Turk piped up cheerfully, as they made it to the deck of the _Oxford_.

Hector shot a glance at Turk, and then looked warily back at Morgan.

"Ah," Morgan said quietly, "yes, there is one more small thing I haven't yet mentioned, Barbossa."

Hector frowned, not liking the sound of where the conversation was headed.

"Beckett has decided to put a price on your head, despite the pardon from the governor," Morgan explained. "You're wanted by the East India Trading Company, alive preferably, for 500 guineas."

"What?" Hector asked incredulously.

"I know," Morgan said wryly. "Hardly a sum worth someone bothering with."

Hector stood there with the implications of having a bounty on his name sinking in as Morgan spoke again. "You, my friend, have been officially declared an outlaw."

"Well," Hector said bitterly, after a moment of thought, "I guess there be only one thing ye'd call an outlaw aboard a ship."

Morgan clapped him on the shoulder and headed for the helm. "Welcome to the brotherhood of pirates, Barbossa."


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

**--**

The next two years were a strain on Hector's relationship with both Morgan and Cezar.

Still scarred and bitter over the loss of his mother and of Christine, Hector had not yet come to forgive Cezar for something that wasn't even his fault, and the guilt he had over that fact, as well as being away from his mother when she died, did a fair bit to keep them mostly estranged, despite the fact that Cezar remained in Port Royal.

As far as Morgan was concerned, Hector remained a valued asset to his crew, but what frustrated the young Barbossa more than anything, was the fact that while Morgan did his best to thwart the EITC at every turn with his other ships, he insisted that the _Oxford_ stay out of the muddle. Her crew was under strict orders, even when Morgan was not aboard, to deal only with the pirate vessels Morgan specified, and to keep her nose clean.

Hector found little to no opportunity to retaliate against the EITC and Charles Beckett, the very man who had placed a price on his head, and he became more withdrawn and taciturn as time went on.

The day came when the _Oxford_ captured a pirate ship called the _Maelstrom_, that had been raiding merchant vessels for quite some time, and had become somewhat of a nuisance to several of Morgan's own ships.

As was his wont, Morgan assigned Hector and his small band of crew to pilot the trophy home, where the ship would be sold for a profit and her crew would likely be hung.

The _Oxford_ had already weighed anchor and headed for Jamaica, and Hector, along with Harlow, Turk, Starkey, Roberts and a half dozen other readied their prize for her journey.

Hector had been lost in thought staring blankly at the horizon as he stood next the wheel when the lookout, Brown called down. "Sail, ho!"

Drawing out a spyglass, Hector scrutinized the ship in the distance, as Harlow came to stand next to him.

"What is it?" Harlow asked.

"Company ship," Hector replied, seeing the EITC banner atop the mainmast of the approaching vessel. "The _Highwind Trader _if I not be mistaken, and she's loaded to the gills judgin' the way she lies."

"Shit!" Harlow swore quietly. "Where's the friggin' Oxford when we need her? That ship'd be a fair fat prize to take and a fine way to piss off ol' Charlie Beckett."

Hector lowered the spyglass slowly, turning toward Harlow with a rare grin. "Who says we be needin' the _Oxford_ to grab that prize?"

Harlow had known Hector for enough years to understand what he was saying.

"You can't be serious!" Harlow exclaimed.

"Barbossa's always fuckin' serious these days," Turk said coming to stand next to the pair. "What are yeh lookin' at?"

"_Highwind Trader_, loaded and ripe fer the pickin'," Hector said, still wearing the grin as he met Turk's gaze. It was only a moment before Turk's expression mirrored his own.

"Besides, we only have ten crew… it isn't enough to take that ship," Harlow insisted, now worried.

Hector regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, and then smiled wryly again. "Yer right, we need more crew."

Harlow all but read his mind. "Morgan'll have your balls dipped in silver and mounted on his mantle, Barbossa!"

Hector had already walked away.

Turk clapped Harlow on the shoulder. "It'd just be a shiny coatin' of silver over solid brass, mate. Come on."

Harlow finally trotted after where the others had gone.

--

Hector stood on the far side of the captain's cabin, arm's crossed over his chest, and jaw set, hoping he looked as confident as he wanted to as Turk and Starkey led the tough-looking pirate into the room. He nodded once to them and they let the man go, retreating to stand outside the closed door.

"Sit," Hector said, indicating a chair at the end of the table. He himself sat in the captain's own chair opposite.

"Ye'd be the former captain of this ship?" Hector asked, staring the man down.

"Name's Ringer," the man spat back, "and I'm still the captain of this ship."

"Name's Barbossa," Hector replied evenly, "and in case ye'd failed to notice, ye've been relieved of yer command…fer the moment."

"Who's the captain then, you?" Ringer sneered. "You're a bit young to captain a ship aren't you, son?"

Hector stared at the man unblinkingly. "I've been young fer a lot of the things I've done, includin' killin' the Pirate Lord of the Adriatic Sea," Hector replied. "He was a lot more pirate than ye'd ever be, and I had no qualms about puttin' a bullet through his jaunty red hat." He hoped the story sounded impressive.

"What do you want?" Ringer asked, looking a bit uncomfortable.

Hector stood, grabbed up some of Ringer's own rum, poured two measures, and slid one across the table to the other man. "I have a proposal for ye."

"What sort of proposal?" Ringer asked, staring unhappily at the drink on the table in front of him.

"There be a trader sitting just off our port bow that'd make a fair prize," Hector explained, sitting back in his chair. "Problem is, my crew's too small, and yers be on their way to the gallows at Port Royal by way of yer own brig."

"So?" Ringer replied, trying to sound casual.

"So, I propose a measure of cooperation," Hector explained. "Yer crew helps mine take that ship, and follows my orders until my men be aboard her, and in return they have their freedom and their ship back. Each vessel leaves the other in peace an' we part company."

Ringer began to smile. "That simple, eh?"

"Aye," Hector replied, watching the man carefully, "that simple. Do we have an accord, Captain Ringer?"

"Aye, that we do, _Captain_ Barbossa," Ringer said, raising his drink in salute. He figured as soon as his men were let out of the brig, they'd quickly overpower the crew of the _Oxford_, as they outnumbered them three to one, and then he'd show the cocky young pirate who was in charge.

Turk and Starkey waited outside the brig while Ringer explained the agreement to the rest of his crew locked in the two cells, and it only took a moment before his men had eagerly agreed to a chance to avoid being hung.

Turk let the men all loose, sending them topside, but when Ringer tried to follow, he put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Not so fast," Turk said.

Ringer glared at him. "Get off me! Your captain and I have an agreement."

"Aye, that yeh do," Turk said, now grinning ear to ear, "but I believe the deal he negotiated was fer the cooperation and release of the _crew_, and not the captain."

Ringer thought it over and realized the specifications of the agreement did not involve him. "Son of a bitch!" he screamed, even as Turk locked the door.

"Yeh have to admit it were a fine bit of negotiation," Turk said jovially. "And jus' so yer crew don't get any ideas about pullin' any funny stuff, Starkey, here'll be keeping an eye on yeh fer insurance." He indicated where Starkey stood with a pistol, leaning casually against the wall, and Starkey wiggled his fingers at him in greeting.

"Shit!" Ringer screamed, slamming his hands against the bars.

"If all goes well, and the captain's in a good mood, yeh might jus' be released with yer crew," Turk said, enjoying taunting the pirate behind bars.

"'Course, Barbossa hasn't been in a good mood for months," Starkey pointed out helpfully.

"Aye, yer right," Turk said with a shrug. "Shame that." He turned and left the captain of the _Maelstrom_ screaming obscenities through the bars.

--

Hector waited on deck with his arms folded, jaw once again set in determination, watching as the thirty some odd pirates of the _Maelstrom's_ crew filed on deck. When at last they all had gathered, he unfolded his arms, and stepped into the middle of the group to address them.

"Gentlemen," he said, gathering their attention, " I want to know if there be any real pirates here on this deck."

"What's he doing?" Harlow whispered to Turk who was standing next to him. "He's going to get us all killed!"

"Shhhh! Let 'im 'ave 'is say," Turk whispered back.

Hector continued. "Who among ye delicate flowers is man enough to take that ship?" He pointed at the _Trader_ in the distance.

A murmur of discussion rippled through the men as they wondered if Barbossa had lost his mind.

Harlow whispered again. "He's going to piss them all off!"

"Shhhh!" Turk shushed him again. "He only needs to piss off one."

Sure enough, Hector came to a stop in front of a pirate even taller and broader than Turk, and stood before him with his hand resting atop his sword. "You," Hector said, "you're a right fair little blossom, ain't ye?"

The man became incensed and started for Hector. "You son of a whore! I'll see to it that…" He stopped, finding himself suddenly with three superficial bleeding wounds across his chest and arm, and Hector's sword pressed against his Adam's apple.

"That what?" Hector snarled. "That ye apologize fer insultin' the finest woman I've ever known?"

"Aye," the large pirate said uneasily, "apologies."

"Ow!" Harlow rubbed his arm where Turk had elbowed him gleefully.

"Now," Hector began, addressing the entire company, "Barbossa be my name, and the captain of this fine ship I be fer the moment. Any man here take issue with that?"

No one ventured forward after they'd seen Hector draw his sword.

"Good," Hector said, and he slammed the blade home into its scabbard. "Ye've agreed to the proposal, and freedom shall be yers, as soon as we take that ship!"

A weathered older pirate stepped forward. "How do we knows we can trust yeh?"

Hector answered him evenly. "Ye don't, and I'll not waste breath tryin' to convince ye otherwise, but I'll tell ye true that I never go back on a bargain once struck, and ye can lay to that."

The older man seemed satisfied that Hector was being sincere.

"What say ye, gents? Be ye posies or pirates?" Hector demanded, turning to the crew once more.

"Pirates!" Came the answer from the crew.

"What?" cried Hector. "Ye'd be fair pansies?"

"PIRATES!" The crew yelled, the group from the _Oxford_ as well.

"Then take that blasted ship!" Hector yelled, effectively scattering the crew.

"Shit!" Harlow swore, rubbing his arm where Turk had again gleefully punched him.

"Master Harlow!" Hector called, waiting for Harlow to reach him.

"Aye, captain?" Harlow said. "What be your orders?"

Hector grinned and punched him in the other arm. "Hoist the fuckin' colors!"

Turk fell in next to him as he headed for the helm. "Master Turk, now'd be the time to see if ye be half the gunner ye claim to be, or if we've carted yer arse around fer naught!"

"Aye, Cap'n!" Turk said brightly, and he led a group of the _Maelstrom's_ crew to the gundeck.

--

When the captain of the _Highwind Trader_ saw the Jolly Roger flying over the ship that approached, he knew confrontation was going to be inevitable and he sent his crew to ready the cannons of the heavily armed EITC vessel.

Hector brought the _Maelstrom_ in fast and furious, nearly colliding with her as he did so, and his own handful of men, sent aloft at the last minute, began picking off men on the deck of the _Trader_, starting with the captain as Hector had instructed.

The two ships were still firing broadsides at each other, but as the first mate began barking orders, and was shot down, and anyone who tried to take the helm was likewise dispatched, the crew of the _Maelstrom_ quickly and efficiently boarded the _Trader_, overwhelming her remaining crew.

When the crew of the _Maelstrom_ seized control of the _Trader_, and had rounded up the last few survivors and brought them on deck at the point of a dozen swords, Hector went aboard to assess the situation. The holds were laden with cargo that would fetch a fair price, and he couldn't wait to present his prize to Morgan.

"What orders concernin' these?" one of the _Maelstrom's_ pirates asked, indicating the five remaining Company men. "Shall we cut their throats? Keelhaul 'em?"

Hector paced in front of the group eyeing them thoughtfully as they watched with grim anticipation. "Put 'em in a boat," he said at last.

The pirate who had spoken looked disappointed. "But…."

"Do as I say!" Hector snarled and then he addressed the five prisoners. "Ye find yerself fortunate today, gentlemen. I need someone left alive to deliver a message to old Charlie Beckett fer me."

"What message?" one of them demanded angrily as the longboat was readied.

Hector stepped directly in front of the man and stared him down. "Ye'll tell 'im what became of his precious ship."

"It'll be just the excuse he needs to go after Morgan," the man said defiantly.

"Morgan?" Hector asked, and then tossed his head back and laughed. "This has naught to do with Morgan! Morgan knows not of yer plight."

He took a step closer to the captive. "This be a personal message from me to Beckett," he snarled. "Ye be sure and send best regards from Hector Barbossa fer me."

The five last members of the _Highwind Trader's_ crew were released to be set adrift in a longboat, and Hector returned to the brig of the _Maelstrom_ to speak once again with Ringer.

Ringer grew agitated again when Hector approached and grabbed the bars of the cell, snarling at the younger captain. "You lying bastard! You tricked me!"

"I think, Captain Ringer, that I spelled out exactly what I wanted the agreement to be," Hector replied in a cocky manner. "'Tis not my fault if ye not be sharp enough to pay attention to the details."

Ringer snarled wordlessly at him.

"I do have another proposal for ye," Hector continued, amused at the pirate's frustration.

"What?" Ringer demanded.

"I'd be of a mind to let ye go with yer crew, but only on two conditions."

"And what are those?" Ringer asked, now paying close attention to what Barbossa would have to say.

"Ye'll honor the agreement fer each ship to leave each other in peace, and I ask that the first time ye and I cross paths again, that you give quarter and raise no hand against me ship," Hector explained. "In return Master Starkey, here'll open the bars, and my crew'll go it's way with the _Trader_."

Ringer thought it over for a moment and then agreed. "We may have an agreement, Barbossa," he said, before the two parted company, "but I'll not forget your name or what you did."

Hector nodded once before joining the rest of the crew already aboard the captured _Trader_. "Ye'd do best not to forget," he said coldly, and then he turned and left the _Maelstrom_.

--

After having been bold enough to take the _Highwind Trader_, Hector still thought it wisest not to sail her directly back into Port Royal harbor, and the small crew moored her a short way out of sight, and took a longboat to shore.

Hawkeye Hartwell was the first one to spot Hector, and seeing him without the _Maelstrom_, became incensed.

"Barbossa!" he said, striding angrily toward the younger man. "Where's the bloody ship you were put in charge of?"

Hector merely shot him a defiant glance, and continued walking, followed by his small crew, and intent on finding Morgan.

"I'm talking to you, Barbossa!" Hartwell grabbed his arm.

Hector stopped in his tracks and shot Hartwell a glare, but did nothing else to respond, as that minute a chorus of clacking noises arose around the two, and Hartwell found himself at the business end of a half dozen pistols that the group accompanying Hector had pointed at him.

He glanced furiously around the group but let go of Hector's arm. "You'd dare?" he snarled at Hector.

Hector shrugged. "I've done nothin'. 'Tis not my fault if me crew thinks ye to be a worthless bit o' scum." He stared at Hartwell for a few seconds more, and then walked away to find Morgan.

Morgan was still on board the _Oxford_, and called for Hector to join him in his cabin when the younger man knocked on the door. "Any trouble on your trip?" Morgan asked.

Hector hesitated a bit. "Nothin' really."

"Good," Morgan replied, inviting Hector to sit. "The prisoners all transferred to the jail?"

Hector looked decidedly uncomfortable. "Well…erm…not exactly," he began unsteadily.

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Not _exactly_?"

"No."

"Where exactly, _are_ the prisoners, Barbossa?" Morgan asked, his brow now furrowing.

Hector was starting to think that what he'd done hadn't been such a good idea. "They be sailin' away on the _Maelstrom_, sir," he finally said in a quiet voice.

Morgan's brow shot up again. "What?" he asked. "Why?"

Hector swallowed hard before answering. "I let them go."

Morgan slammed a hand into the table, causing Hector to jump. "You did what?" he demanded. "Are you daft?"

"No, sir."

"Then I assume that you're going to have a spectacularly brilliant explanation for me as to why." Morgan waited while Hector gathered himself to tell what had happened.

Morgan said nothing for the next few minutes, listening intently as Hector informed him of what happened. He looked grim by the time the story was over.

"So, what you're telling me is that you took _my_ men, commandeered a ship that _I _captured, convinced the _enemy_ pirate crew to work together to take a trader of Beckett's that was stuffed to the gills and will cause a riot of trouble over at the EITC, and struck a bargain with Captain Ringer as well?" Morgan demanded.

"Aye, sir." Hector said quietly, sitting sheepishly across the table.

Morgan stared Hector down for another moment, and then very slowly a smile started to creep its way across his face. "That," he said, "is precisely why I think so much of you, Barbossa."


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

**--**

It was fortunate that Morgan made the _Highwind Trader_ and her cargo disappear off the face of the earth. The cargo was taken to Kingston and Tortuga and sold, and the Trader ended up as a burned out shell at the bottom of the Caribbean.

A few days after commandeering the _Trader_, Hector found himself accosted by several marines acting on behalf of Charles Beckett and the East India Trading Company. He was taken before Beckett, himself against his will, and he stood glaring at the man who sat behind a large ornate desk.

"So, you wanted to send me a message eh, Barbossa?" Beckett said from where he had his hands folded in front of him on the desk.

Hector tried to stay calm. "I have no idea what ye'd be talkin' about, sir," he replied evenly.

"Really? You didn't take that ship of mine and tell my men it was personal?" Beckett asked coldly.

Hector shrugged. "What ship?"

Beckett smiled at him without mirth. "Don't play games with me, Barbossa. I intend to have you hung for piracy, as well as for the murder of Stewart McCallum."

"McCallum's death were self-defense, and as fer yer ship? Do ye have proof?" Hector asked, trying to sound confident, but now starting to worry a little.

Beckett was about to speak, when he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Looking up, he narrowed his eyes in suspicion as Henry Morgan entered his office.

"Good afternoon, Charles," Morgan said pleasantly. "I trust you are well?"

"I'd be better if your thugs weren't raiding my ships and interfering with Company business, Morgan." He glanced meaningfully at Hector.

"Whatever are you talking about, Charles?" Morgan asked, wearing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Barbossa, here is one of my most valued crew, and one of the most upstanding."

"That doesn't say much about the rest of your crew, Morgan," Beckett spat. "I intend to see this man hung."

"For what reason?" Morgan asked calmly.

"He attacked and stole one of my vessels," Beckett sneered.

"Really? Where is the ship that he stole? I should be curious to see her," Morgan replied.

Beckett frowned. "She's hasn't been seen again, but I have five witnesses that say the _Maelstrom_ raided her."

"The _Maelstrom_? Why, that would be Captain Ringer's ship," Morgan said. "Have you ever been part of the crew of the _Maelstrom_, Hector?"

"No, sir," Hector replied truthfully.

"Have you ever sailed under the command of Captain Ringer?" Morgan asked.

"No, sir, never," Hector replied, again quite truthfully.

Beckett was becoming irate. "But my men said..."

"Evidently, they were mistaken," Morgan replied firmly, "and I'm sure you realize that it'll mean a lot less trouble for you if you just let Barbossa go. I should hate to have to involve the governor again, as he's such a busy man."

"Of course, if you happened to have hard evidence, it'd be a different story," Morgan continued, a wry smile crossing his face.

"Fine," Beckett sneered. "Both of you get out, but you mark my words, Morgan. Your days of running things here in the Caribbean are at an end, and the Company won't tolerate any interference from rogue pirates."

"I should think not," Morgan said pleasantly. "Good day, Charles. Come, Barbossa."

Hector spoke to Morgan once they were well away from Beckett's office. "Thankee, Cap'n. That be a mite close fer comfort."

"You'll have to watch yourself, Barbossa. Beckett isn't a man to trifle with," Morgan said solemnly.

"Neither are ye," Hector answered with a wry grin.

Morgan smiled. "That's true, Barbossa."

--

Two nights later, Hector was sitting in the Whale and Waterspout with Harlow, Turk, and Starkey when Roberts came in.

"Did you see this?" he asked, waving a sheet of parchment, and then tossing it on the table as he sat down.

Turk picked it up, read it and started to grin. "Yer becomin' more popular with Beckett everyday, Barbossa." He slid the paper along to Hector who likewise picked it up and read it.

"Twelve hundred guineas," he said with amusement, eyeing the latest wanted poster. "fer information leadin' to the capture _and_ conviction of Hector Barbossa. So, now he's recruitin' to try and find proof."

"Better'n five hundred guineas," Harlow replied with a grin.

"Aye, and it'll be more'n that if I have any say," Hector replied smugly. "Just try and let him find proof of anything improper."

--

Morgan was wise enough to keep Hector strictly on the _Oxford_ for a time after that, to make sure that Beckett had no opportunity to find anything with which to use against him. While Hector was content to lay low after the _Maelstrom_ incident, the one thing that still posed a problem with him being on the _Oxford_, was his tense relationship with Hartwell.

Morgan had spoken with Hector and told him it wouldn't be long before the two of them wouldn't be part of the same crew, as he intended to give Hartwell his own ship to captain not far down the road, and he asked Hector to do his best to keep the peace onboard.

Hector did so, only because it was Morgan that asked him, but he swore that if Hartwell gave him any just cause off the ship, one of them would probably not return to sea.

--

The events that took place just before Hector reached the seasoned age of twenty-five would change his life forever, once again.

The _Oxford_ had been to sea for several long weeks, and was returning to Port Royal from where she'd been sailing to the northwest, not far off the coast of Cuba, when it became evident that the return trip was not going to be as smooth as they hoped.

Morgan stood on deck with Hartwell, eyeing the dark clouds that were on the horizon, wishing that they were closer to land with the way the storm looked. Caught half way between the Caymans and Jamaica, they were going to have to make a run for it if they might find shelter along the coast of either. Morgan decided to continue east toward Jamaica, even as the swells around the ship were beginning to dramatically rise and fall.

Thunder could be heard off in the distance even before the torrential rain began, and the crew, including Hector, knew that this was no minor squall that they were going to sail through quickly.

Though it was midday, the sky quickly grew dark as dusk, and forks of lightning could be seen stabbing through the not so distant horizon.

Hector joined Morgan at the helm to scrutinize the storm. "This will be a close contest, Barbossa," Morgan said grimly. "Would that we had sailed for home earlier or later. See to it that everything is secured and battened down properly, would you?"

"Aye, Cap'n," Hector said, shooting a brief look of dislike at Hartwell who remained at the wheel.

The storm arrived with a great swell that rocked the _Oxford_, and a bolt of lightning that shattered the air nearby, just before the heavens opened up and instantly doused everything and everyone on deck. Gale force winds began tearing at the sails, putting a strain on all the masts.

"Cap'n, we should drop canvas!" Hartwell said after half an hour of trying to skirt the edges of the storm, yelling to be heard

"Aye, shortly," Morgan cried back through the wind and the rain, watching the way the wind still ripped at their sails carefully. "If she'll hold a bit longer, we might make land around the edge of the storm to ride the rest of it out!"

It became apparent quickly that Morgan's hopes were not going to pan out, and he finally gave in when the main topgallant began to tear along a weak seam, and several stays snapped away from their fastenings.

Crewmen scrambled to try and drop canvas, struggling as the ship tossed dramatically on the deepening swells. Hartwell struggled with the wheel, trying to maintain some sort of heading as best he could, but it became obvious as the seas grew more violent that his efforts were probably counting for very little. The _Oxford_ dropped deep into a trough and then plowed up and out the other side, torrents of seawater slamming over the deck before anyone had a chance to react.

Hector, having made it back to where Morgan was shouting orders frantically to the crew, watched horrified, as the wave that scoured the deck took a man named Carter over the rail and out into the violent ocean. He dashed for the rail, slipping and falling twice in the water that was still draining through the scuppers, but there was no sign of Carter anywhere when he looked over the side.

Lightning tore across the heavens again, lighting the deck of the ship up for an instant as bright as day, and sheets of rain slashed across the ship. Visibility plummeted as the rain increased to torrents, and the crew fighting to reef sail at the fore of the ship had a difficult time hearing orders shouted to them from Morgan back at the helm.

"Barbossa!" Morgan cried aloud, "Get up here and take the wheel!" He pointed at where Hartwell was fighting for everything he was worth at the helm, and Hector jumped to comply with the order, bolting for the quarterdeck. Lightning ripped the blackness around them again, illuminating the enormous wave they approached.

Morgan himself had started making his way across the deck to try to get instructions to the crew near the foremast, and had to grab onto the starboard main shroud to keep from being swept across the deck. Hector had seen his captain nearly losing his footing from where he fought to hang onto the wheel with Hartwell, and was relieved to see the only thing washed overboard was Morgan's hat.

The _Oxford_ was swept down into another deep trough, and managed once again to plough up and out the other side, and Hector fought alongside Hartwell to steer them up and out of it, saying nothing and letting their mutual animosity go temporarily for the sake of trying to save the ship.

A faint cry broke through the violent sounds of the storm and the sea as the _Oxford _was swept along sideways by another enormous wave, and Hector could see that someone who had been overhead in the rigging of the mainmast had fallen into the sea. He thought for a moment it was Thomas Harlow, and his heart sank until he spotted both Turk and Harlow fighting to make their way aft from where they'd been.

Thunder crashed again, temporarily drowning out the sounds of the rain and wind, and both Hector and Hartwell ducked involuntarily, letting go of the wheel and throwing themselves to the deck as lightning struck the mainmast, blowing the top third of it to bits that rained down on the crew below on the deck. The unstable mast, already shorn of a pair of stays, began to lurch dangerously to starboard, and as Hector climbed back to his feet, the sharp cracking noise made by the mast could be heard over the violence of the storm.

Hartwell had flung himself on the ship's wheel again, bringing it back under control for the moment, but Hector, in the illumination provided by the next bolt of lightning, could see that Morgan was in trouble. Hit by a large chunk of disintegrating mast, Morgan had been slammed into the deck, and was fighting frantically against the next wave that came awash over the deck, hanging onto a rope from the now defunct shroud.

Hector dashed for the stairs, thinking to aid the fallen captain, and ignored Hartwell as the first mate ordered him back to the helm. He grabbed onto the rail, trying to pull himself forward across the deck to where Morgan had almost made it to his feet. He could tell that in the confusion of the storm, Morgan had no idea that the mast next to him had nearly given way, and was being pulled rapidly by the weather toward the deck where Morgan was.

Hector held on for dear life and shouted at Morgan, pointing at the mast that was collapsing. Morgan was still having trouble gaining his feet on the wet deck with the angle the _Oxford _was lurching at on the swells. It became clear to Hector in the next instant that Morgan wasn't going to make it, and he let go of the railing and lurched dangerously across the deck, risking being swept overboard.

Another sharp crack came from the mast as the remnants let go, and Hector slammed into Morgan, shouldering him out of the way just as the mast collapsed onto the deck. Morgan slid across the deck, still managing to hang onto the rope in his hands, and Hector, trying to dodge the toppling mast unsuccessfully was caught up in rigging as the entire mast fell, and then was slammed into the deck brutally by the yard that carried the topsail.

Agonizing pain shot instantly across his lower back and down his right thigh, causing him to scream, and any thoughts he had of trying to pull himself out from under the rigging were quashed by the weight of the yard and rigging, and the terrible injuries he knew he must have just received.

Distantly he heard voices calling his name through the storm, and with one last attempt to lift his head, he slumped back to the deck and fell into a silent oblivion.

--

Two days later, when Hector finally opened his eyes, he knew the storm must have ended, as it was quiet all around him. It took him a minute to realize that he must not be on board the Oxford any longer due to the fact that things around him were so still. He was in a large bed, tucked under fine linens, and when he tried to lift his head from the pillow to look around him, even that small gesture sent a wave of pain down his back so severe, that it nauseated him.

Hector let his head fall back against the pillow, panting from the excruciating pain, and the effort not to vomit.

"Ah, you're awake," a familiar voice said next to him, and Hector risked turning his head slightly to the side to look at the speaker. Cezar sat in a chair at his bedside, watching him with great concern evident on a tired-looking face.

"Cezar," Hector gasped, finding he was actually relieved to see the older man, "what happened? Where am I? What are you doing here?"

Cezar smiled. "I am glad to see that you are well enough to plague me with a thousand questions. You were injured during a great storm, struck by the falling mainmast of the _Oxford_."

Recollection of events started to flood back in, and Hector interrupted Cezar, now very concerned. "Morgan...what happened to Morgan?"

"He is fine, Barbossa, thanks to you, from what I am told. This is his house in Port Royal that you are in, and evidently here you shall remain until you are recovered from your injuries," Cezar explained. "As for me, I am here to help look after you…if that meets with your approval?"

Hector could sense the doubt in Cezar's voice after they'd been at odds for so long, never having come to terms with each other after the argument over his mother's death. The fact that it was Cezar holding vigil by his bedside when he awoke, said a lot about the older man, and Hector had to admit he was quite grateful for his presence.

"Aye," he replied weakly, "there not be anyone I'd rather have nagging me during me recovery."

Cezar smiled back, but the smile was short-lived as Hector asked his next question. "What exactly be the injuries I have, Cezar?"

Cezar's manner became quite solemn. "They are not good, Barbossa." He gave more of an explanation when he saw the question in Hector's eyes. "You're leg is broken, thankfully, no bone was exposed. Morgan's _doutor_…his personal physician has been seeing to you, and he says that you've a fractured pelvis as well, and..."

"And?" Hector asked, not really wanting to know the '_and'_.

"And your back, Hector," Cezar said grimly. "You were crushed under the weight of the mast...it is fortunate that you are even..."

"How bad?" Hector asked sharply, looking away to stare at the ceiling.

"Dr. Nelson feels it is unlikely that you'll walk again," Cezar finally said in nearly a whisper.

"Does he, now?" Hector asked from where he'd closed his eyes, lamenting his fate.

"That is what he said," Cezar replied, placing his hand on the younger man's arm. They stayed that way for a few moments, and then Cezar spoke again. "I think he is wrong, Barbossa. This _doutor..._this doctor...he does not know you the way I do."

"Thankee fer yer vote of confidence, Cezar," Hector replied, a measure of bitterness in his voice.

"Well, it's not only Cezar's vote, Barbossa."

Morgan spoke from where he'd entered the room. "Cezar is right. As much faith as I have in my physician, he tends to be overly pessimistic, and as Mr. Silva has so accurately observed, he does not know you as we do."

"Well, it must be true if the two of you see eye to eye about somethin'," Hector replied, unsmiling but doing his best to make light of the situation.

"Get some rest, Barbossa," Morgan said kindly.

"How be the rest of the crew, Cap'n?" Hector asked, starting to tire from the conversation already.

"We lost three at sea," Morgan replied, "but Mr. Kempthorne and Mr. Harlow are fine, just for the record.

"Although a little bored with both you and the _Oxford_ under repair at the moment," Morgan added wryly. "I should think it won't be long before they break down my front door that they keep knocking on, asking to see you."

Hector nodded, and then drifted off to sleep, knowing that he had a long road ahead of him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

**--**

_"How be the rest of the crew, Cap'n?" Hector asked, starting to tire from the conversation already._

_"We lost three at sea," Morgan replied, "but Mr. Kempthorne and Mr. Harlow are fine, just for the record. _

_"A little bored with both you and the Oxford under repair at the moment," Morgan added wryly. "I should think it won't be long before they break down my front door that they keep knocking on, asking to see you."_

_Hector nodded, and then drifted off to sleep, knowing that he had a long road ahead of him._

**--**

While Hector was thankful for the fact that he had even survived the storm and the collapse of the _Oxford_'s mainmast, things were extremely difficult over the first few weeks he spent in recovery at Morgan's home.

Frustrated that he could barely move, and drained by the constant excruciating pain, he found it difficult to not be short with those around him who were trying to help. Dealing with the logistics of being bed-ridden was unpleasant and humiliating, and Hector was grateful for Cezar's assistance. By the end of a few weeks the two had grown closer again, and it was almost as if there had never been any distance between them.

After the first three weeks, the doctor had decreed that Hector could be allowed to be propped up ever so slightly, and Cezar had just done so and then walked across the room to look out the window. "Looks like they're fitting the new mast today," he said from where he had a view down the hill over the small harbor.

"Good," Hector replied, uncomfortable with the fact that they were now discussing the ship both of them knew to be a pirate vessel under her façade of protector of the colony. Cezar said nothing else, and Hector spoke up again. "Cezar...I owe ye a great apology," he said quietly, having made up his mind over the past few days that he needed to have this particular conversation.

"For what, Hector?" Cezar asked, turning away from the window.

"Fer treatin' ye so badly when me mother died," Hector replied, not sure how Cezar was going to react.

"There is no need," Cezar replied quietly. "We both went through a lot of pain when she died, Hector. It would be even worse if you were out of my life longer than you already were."

"I feared that I be a disappointment to ye, Cezar," Hector said quietly. "Ye warned me time and again that I'd end up a pirate with the course that I followed."

"It's not too late to walk away, Barbossa," Cezar replied, trying not to sound too much like he was lecturing, "but perhaps we should just concentrate on getting you to walk first, yes?"

Hector nodded, and the two remained silent for a moment. "I'm good at it, Cezar," Hector said in barely more than a whisper.

"What?" Cezar asked him.

"Piratin'...I'm good at it...and I can't rightly say it doesn't suit me," Hector explained.

Cezar looked thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose there was never any getting around it since it is in your blood, Patife. I cannot say this pleases me, but I will tell you now, once and finally, that it changes nothing between us. Você compreende?"

"Sim, eu compreendo," Hector replied, smiling a little at the chance to use Portuguese with Cezar after so long.

--

While Cezar spent a great deal of time looking after Hector, he couldn't be with the younger man constantly, and much of the rest of the time he was under the watchful eye of Mary, Morgan's wife.

Grateful to the younger man for saving her husband's life, she brought him food and helped him eat, and conversed with him whenever he was awake. They spoke of his childhood and his mother, and of her younger days in Wales before she had met Henry Morgan.

One rainy day, when she came to see how he fared, Mary brought a book to Hector's bedside, thinking to read to him as she thought it might be entertaining, and wasn't entirely sure the young man could read.

"I thought I'd read to you a bit today," she said kindly, smoothing out her skirts as she sat in the chair stationed at the side of the bed. "Would that be alright?"

"Aye, if ye be so inclined, 'twould take me mind off bein' stuck in this bed," Hector replied, frustration evident in his voice at first. He quickly worried that he had offended his hostess. "Not that I'm not entirely grateful fer..."

Mary smiled at him, and patted his arm. "I know. I'd be frustrated by now too." She opened the book.

"What is it that ye've brought to read?" Hector asked, wondering what the older woman could have possibly brought that she'd think he'd want to hear.

"Shakespeare," she replied, smiling at the way Hector nearly rolled his eyes, but refrained from doing so at the last minute. "Now, none of that. Give it a chance...it's not as if you really have a choice, now is it?" she teased.

"I fear not," Hector replied from where he was trapped in the bed. "Isn't that...well, ladies' readin'?"

"You tell me," Mary replied wryly, and she began the story.

Several minutes later, Hector interrupted her. "Wait...witches...beheadin'...guttin' people...what is it exactly ye be readin'?"

"_Macbeth_," Mary replied knowingly. "Does it suit you, Master Barbossa?"

"We'll see," he replied, indicating she should continue.

At the end of the first act she could see he was growing tired. "Shall we continue tomorrow?" she asked.

"Aye, 'tis not as bad as I thought," Hector replied, smirking a little as he did so. "_I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none_. Methinks I like this line of _Macbeth's_, dear lady," he said, teasing her before he closed his eyes.

--

Days passed as Mary continued to tend to Hector and sit by his bedside reading the rest of _Macbeth_ to him. Often he would ask her to repeat a phase or a line that had caught his attention, intrigued by the elegant words and complexity of the plot. When she had finished the book, Mary next brought _Romeo and Juliet_, and despite the fact that Hector had enjoyed her first choice, he actually did roll his eyes at her when she announced their next reading venture.

"Yer makin' a joke, are ye not?" Hector asked, glancing in a concerned way at the book in her hands.

"Not at all," Mary replied, amused by the young man fretting over the story she had chosen. "Let's see if you find the strength to endure this, shall we, Master Barbossa?"

Hector caught the teasing nature of her words and let his head fall back against the pillow with obvious angst. "Fine."

Becoming more interested in the strife between the two families in the story, and the young Romeo's plight of being in love with Rosaline, Hector nonetheless snorted when Mary began reading the fifth scene.

"_Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night,"_ Mary read, and then looked up as Hector huffed at her reading. "Yes?"

"Yer sayin' this Romeo falls fer Juliet after one glance at her across the room?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes, that is what Shakespeare intended to convey, I believe," Mary answered, trying not to smile too broadly.

Hector rolled his eyes again.

"You don't think love at first sight is possible, Hector?" Mary asked, setting the open book in her lap for the moment.

"Sounds ridiculous if ye ask me," he replied, waving her off.

Mary picked the book back up to continue reading. "Let us see how ridiculous you find the rest," she replied knowingly, and picked up where she had left off.

The next afternoon, Hector stopped her again. "So, now he's sayin' that Juliet still loves Romeo, even though he's a murderer?"

Mary set down the book again. "Do you not think Romeo just for avenging his friend Mercutio?"

Hector thought it over for a moment. "Aye, but that the girl would still love him..."

"Do you think I still love my husband not, after some of his deeds?" Mary asked softly.

"Nay, 'tis fer certain that ye be constant in yer affections and loyalty, dear lady," Hector replied, mocking Mary and Shakespeare lightly.

"And if I can love a pirate, cannot Juliet love poor Romeo who only thought to avenge his companion?" Mary asked.

"Aye, I suppose, but 'tis a rare an' marvelous thing to find such a woman, I wager," Hector said softly.

"Yes, that is why Shakespeare's heroine is so famous," Mary answered as she picked the book back up.

"I meant a woman such as yerself, that can love a pirate," Hector said, looking away and staring out the window for a moment.

Mary stayed silent, giving the young man a moment or two with his thoughts. She knew he still lamented the loss of Christine, and that he assumed his life as a pirate and indeed a maimed one at that, would preclude him from having love in his life.

"Yours has not been an easy life, Hector," she said kindly, " but I'll bet you've done more living than most men twice your age." She smiled when he looked back at her. "It might not be right away, but I think you'll find her at some point."

"Who, my Juliet?" Hector sneered slightly.

"No," Mary replied, flipping to the next page, "any woman who might find herself enamored of you, Hector Barbossa, had better be made of sturdier stuff."

A wry grin finally managed to tug at the corners of Hector's mouth.

--

By the time Mary had finished _Romeo and Juliet_, _The Merchant of Ven_ice, and _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, Hector had improved enough that he could sit propped up higher for short periods of time, and began to read the books Mary brought him on his own.

He devoured more Shakespeare, Chaucer, Milton, several books on natural history, and finding himself alone when he finished _Paradise Lost_, turned to the only other book within reach of the bedside.

Morgan himself came in to see how Hector faired, and found him engrossed in the Bible when he did so.

"I didn't realize that you were a religious man, Barbossa," Morgan said as he pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down.

Hector looked up. "A bored one, more likely," he said, letting the book in his hands fall closed. He set it down on the table next to the bed. "'Tis full of tales as fanciful as any of those," he said, indicating the pile of books he had already polished off. "I'm afraid I've not much use fer it beyond that."

Morgan merely smiled at him. "Shall I bring you more to read, Hector?"

"Aye, but I could use a rest from Shakespeare, as much as yer wife continues to insist that it's good fer me," Hector replied with a great sigh. "It be work reading that man's writin'."

"Well, then, I believe I have something that might interest you," Morgan replied, handing over a thick stack of papers that he had carried in. "Read this, if you would, and then let me know what you think of it."

"What is it?" Hector asked curiously, taking the pile Morgan offered him.

"A little project that I've nearly completed," Morgan said, rising from the chair. "When you've finished that, I would say it'll be about time to get you on your feet for a bit, don't you think?"

"Aye," Hector replied. He returned to the first page in his hands to read the heading. _Pirata_ _Codex _was scrawled across the top in Morgan's elegant script, and Hector recalled enough of the Latin taught to him by Father Connor that he understood it.

"The Pirate Code?" he asked, just before Morgan exited the room.

"Aye," Morgan replied from the doorway, " uniting the Brethren from the western Caribbean and Tortuga has taken some doing, and I thought it best to jot down, oh... a few guidelines to make things run a bit smoother." He smiled again. "See what you think, Barbossa."

--

Morgan had been right, and by the time Hector got through the stacks of pages that Morgan brought him, another week and a half had passed, and the doctor declared, after examining him thoroughly, that Hector could try getting out of bed the next day.

"Well, that's good news," Morgan declared, watching Hector scrutinize the last stack of papers. "Which section are you reading?"

"The Right of Parley," Hector replied absently, engrossed in the contents of the chapter he was reading. Finally he looked up. "Did ye write all this yerself, Cap'n? There must be a thousand pages all told."

"Nine hundred and eighty-seven," Morgan replied, wryly, "and no, I had help."

"I'm wonderin' what sort of man might take to writin' a piece o' work such as this with ye," Hector said teasingly, setting the chapter down.

"Oh, a man that I think you would have liked well enough," Morgan replied. "Went by the name of Bartholomew."

"Went?" Hector asked. "Does that mean he's dead?"

"Aye, since before you arrived in the Caribbean," Morgan replied. "So, what do you think?" He pointed at the pages Hector had been reading.

"I think the guidelines fer parley leave a lot of room fer playin' fast an' loose, if ye ask me," Hector answered.

"Yes, that's how Bartholomew wrote them," Morgan replied with a grin. "Always was one to make use of a technicality to his advantage."

Hector smiled. "Yer right. Sounds as if I would have liked him," he said, handing the pages back over to Morgan.

"More than you probably realize, Barbossa," Morgan replied quietly. "Get some rest. Tomorrow is going to be a rough one, I'll wager."

--

Morgan was right yet again. The next day Morgan and his wife, Jedediah, Cezar, Turk and Harlow were all present along with the doctor when Hector would try standing for the first time in many weeks.

It took almost everything he had just to get himself situated with his legs over the edge of the bed, and Turk and Cezar stood on either side of him, ready to help him to his feet. Hector was already gritting his teeth against the pain that still shot through his lower back and his leg, and had to take a moment to gather himself to stand.

"Whenever you are ready," Cezar said encouragingly.

Hector hesitated for another moment, knowing that he had to do it, but that it was going to mean a great deal of pain when he gained his feet. He glanced once at Turk, who grinned back at him.

"Get yer fuckin' arse outta bed, Barbossa," he said jovially. "We're tired o' waitin' on yeh while yeh lounge around readin' them pansy books all day."

"Well, then get out o' me way, yeh daft lummox," Hector spat back good-naturedly, and he made a monumental effort to get to his feet.

The pain that shot through him took his breath away, and Hector found himself gripped by the arms by Turk and Cezar, who had each grabbed him to keep him from falling back.

"Merda!" he swore sharply, panting from the pain and breaking out in a sweat just from the effort of standing. He let a torrent of curses go, both in Portuguese and the King's English, and Turk laid into him again.

"Yer right eloquent after readin' all that Shakespeare, Barbossa," he teased mercilessly. "Such lovely words from yeh fer the lady that's present."

"Shut it!" Hector gasped, trying to decide if he was actually up to the task of trying to take a few steps. He didn't think he would be able to get any further than standing until he looked up and noticed that Hawkeye Hartwell was hovering around the doorway, curious as to how Hector fared.

Determined not to fail in front of the hated first mate, Hector took a step forward, biting back curses, and snarling wordlessly in defiance of the pain that continued to rip through his body. A dozen steps later, he was exhausted, and Turk and Cezar helped lower him to the cushioned seat by the window, and then the entire group celebrated the small but significant victory by the young pirate.

--

Hector continued to improve as the weeks went on, progressing from being able to get to the window and back two or three times a day, to being able to accompany Mary to her garden with the use of a crutch, if he had her to steady his other arm. The pain he experienced was still marked, but it seemed to dull slightly with each passing week, even as Hector felt his strength returning.

The day came when he no longer needed the crutch, and he joined Mary in a walk through her garden without her assistance. Although it was readily apparent that he was improving daily, it was also obvious to Hector that he would probably never walk quite normally again. He supposed it was a small price to pay for escaping the storm with his life.

When they reached the garden that day, Hector was surprised to see Jedediah Gray waiting for him at the end of garden with two swords. He handed Hector's own sword over to him and spoke. "Time to go to work," he said, indicating the small clearing nearby, and the two men engaged in the first duel they'd had in many months.

The third time Jedediah disarmed Hector and his sword clattered to the ground, the younger man found himself angry and frustrated at how slow he found himself reacting. He'd long been accustomed to handling a sword with a level of skill that surpassed almost anyone he'd ever met, and the fact that Jedediah was making short work of him so easily infuriated him. He picked up the sword once again.

"I think that's enough for today, Barbossa," Jedediah said quietly, seeing the familiar obsessive determination return to the younger man's eyes. When he saw that Hector was about to insist that they continue, he cut him off. "There is no sense in exhausting yourself today. I have no doubt that it will not be long before I find myself at the point of your sword again, Hector."

He smiled broadly. "Let me enjoy being the better swordsman again for a short time, eh?"

Hector reluctantly agreed. "I'd not be gettin' used to it, if I were you," he said wryly, walking slowly and unevenly back toward the garden with Jedediah.

"Oh, believe me, I don't plan on it," Jedediah said with a sigh, clapping the younger pirate on the shoulder as they walked.

--

**A/N:** For the purposes of this story, Bartholomew is not the same person as Bartholomew Roberts, who would actually be about the same age as Hector if I followed historical timelines, and likely couldn't have been the one who helped write the Pirate Code with Morgan.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N:** Just a chapter I wrote for fun, now that Hector's back on his feet, although you'll find the end significant, I'm sure.

I blame EastCoastie1500 for part of this, as I began to wonder just where Hector would have learned to waltz after reading her story _Waltz of the Wicked_, a ways back. If you're a Babossa fan, and haven't read it, or any of her other stories, I suggest you do so at once..._after_ you've read this, of course. ;)

--

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

**--**

The clatter of a sword hitting the ground broke the peace of the garden, and Jedediah smiled at Hector from where the younger man held him pinned against a tree, disarmed and with the point of a sword at his throat.

In the weeks they'd been working together, Hector had been recovering much of his strength and skill, and was now at the point that he was compensating well for the effects of his injuries that would likely remain with him permanently.

Hector released Gray, and picked up the fallen sword to hand back to the older pirate, a smirk on his face and a smart comment poised on his lips, but both men looked up as they heard Morgan's voice from where he'd been quietly monitoring the latest duel.

"Well done, Barbossa," he said approvingly, approaching the two. "I'd say he's fairly well recovered, wouldn't you, Jedediah?"

"Extremely," Jedediah said dryly, from where he was still pinned, unable to move, against the tree. "I think that's enough for this morning, Barbossa. Would you mind?"

"Apologies," Hector replied smugly, lowing his sword at last. "It's just that I find it refreshin' to see ye be at the point of me own blade once again, Master Gray."

Jedediah rubbed the spot on his throat where the sword had pressed up against his skin. "Not precisely the word I would have chosen, but yes, I take your meaning," he said, somewhat amused.

Morgan spoke up again. "I think it's time we saw to getting you back aboard a ship, wouldn't you agree, Hector?"

"Aye, that I would," Hector replied in earnest. "As much as I appreciate what you and yer fine lady have done for me, Cap'n, I admit to bein' right anxious to be back at sea."

"Yes, well it is a small matter compared to what you did for me, Barbossa," Morgan said sincerely. "I'm not nearly as young as I once was, and the injury you endured would probably have been the end of me."

Hector grinned. "I doubt it," he said wryly. "Yer a pretty tough old seadog yerself, Cap'n."

Morgan frowned a bit. "I never said I was _old_, Master Barbossa," he replied with mock indignation. "I'll wager you feel the same way when you get to be my age."

Hector hung his sword back in its customary spot at his left hip. "If I make it to be that age," he replied. "I've been in enough trouble already to doubt that I might make it _that_ far."

Morgan couldn't help but laugh at Hector's second jab at his age. "We'll see," he said in reply, shooting a bit of a look at Jedediah where the other man was trying not to laugh. "I'm not sure just what it is that you find so amusing, Master Gray, seeing as how you are, in fact, much closer to my own age than that of Master Barbossa, here."

Jedediah quit laughing as Morgan turned back to Hector.

"I'm afraid that I bring you news of the next hurdle you must clear in your journey to becoming a venerable _old seadog_, like me, Barbossa," Morgan said wryly, walking with the others back toward the grand house.

"What be that?" Hector asked. "Beckett upped me bounty again? Ye need a Company ship dealt with?"

"Nothing quite so simple," Morgan said, as he watched Hector look puzzled. "I come bearing an invitation from my wife."

"She's not going to be makin' me read more poetry in the garden with her is she?" Hector asked, a note of panic edging into his voice. While he had the utmost respect for Mary Morgan, he found the petite, refined older woman a bit intimidating to deal with in her efforts to culture her recovering and captive patient, as she reminded him just a little too much of his mother.

Morgan and Jedediah shared a knowing look that Hector didn't like at all. "Would that it were that simple, lad," Morgan replied. "She's throwing one of her soirees this week, and she's determined that you're to attend."

He saw the distressed look on the younger man's face and continued. "I'd like nothing better than to put us both to sea tomorrow, Barbossa, but I'm afraid she wangled a promise out of me to attend this time before I could find an excuse."

"That be yer own issue, Cap'n," Hector replied. "It doesn't rightly mean that I have to..."

"She's throwing this in your honor, Barbossa, to celebrate your remarkable recovery," Morgan replied, a gleam his eye.

Hector's face dropped. "Merda!" swore quietly, and the three glanced across the garden to where Mary Morgan was headed their way.

"Yes, that's pretty much what I said when she informed me that I would be going," Morgan replied, sotto voce.

"Ah, there you are," Mary said pleasantly as she approached the three men. She glanced at her husband when she reached them. "Henry, you've told Jedediah and Hector, I assume?"

All three nodded to acknowledge that they knew of the event she was referring to.

"Splendid," she said cheerfully, turning to address Hector. "I've seen to it that there shall be plenty of young ladies available for the evening, Hector. I daresay you shan't want for a partner."

Hector wasn't sure he liked where the conversation was headed. "Partner?" he asked, afraid of what she would say next.

"Why, yes, for dancing," she replied with a light little laugh.

The color drained out of Hector's face even as he caught Morgan and Gray beginning to share amused glances with one another out of the corner of his eye. "Dancin'?" he croaked, feeling slightly ill at that moment.

"Of course," Mary replied, and then she took on a more concerned look. "You do know how to dance, don't you, Hector?"

"Never had occasion to learn," Hector replied, thinking it might not be a bad thing after all. Perhaps it would serve as sufficient excuse for him to bow out of her little celebration. His hopes were dashed as Mary spoke again.

"Well, now, that won't do at all," she replied, glancing at her husband. "Will it, Henry?"

Morgan was doing all he could to keep a straight face, as he obviously knew his wife well, and knew where things were headed before she even said anything else. He merely shook his head in negation to answer her question.

"Of course not," she said, supporting her own opinion. She reached out and slid her hand under Hector's elbow, taking him by the arm. "Come. Let us see what we can do to remedy that problem, Hector."

Hector started to pull back. "I'm afraid I can't...I ...erm...have more work to do with Master Gray with...the...erm...sword," he said unsteadily, looking pleadingly at Jedediah for help.

"You've defeated me enough times this morning already, Barbossa," Jedediah replied, enjoying Hector's discomfort too much to rescue him. "We'll pick up again tomorrow."

Hector's eyes narrowed as he realized no manner of help was forthcoming from either Jedediah or Morgan, and he shot them both a dirty look even as Mary led him away.

--

"Think ye this be completely necessary?" Hector asked as Mary tried for a third time to get him to take her hand in his and put his other on her waist.

"Completely," she said firmly, and Hector knew that she had her mind made up. Considering himself to be in her debt for caring for him during his convalescence over the past several months, he finally resigned himself to let her instruct him so he could humor her.

Hector actually managed to make a little progress with Mary that afternoon, and the lesson might not have been so bad if it weren't for the fact that by the end of it, Turk and Harlow had found themselves leaning on the small wall that surrounded Mrs. Morgan's garden, monitoring the lesson with great amusement.

"Poor bugger," Harlow said after watching Hector suffer through another twenty minutes of instruction in the waltz. "Do you think we ought to rescue him?"

Turk straightened up from where he'd been leaning on the wall. "Aye, I reckon he's had enough. Come on."

Hector cringed when he saw his two shipmates heading across the small lawn toward him. No doubt they'd seen what she'd been putting him through and he knew he was never going to hear the end of it from them.

Hector waltzed Mary around so that his back was toward his two friends as they approached, so he didn't have to look at them.

"Barbossa!" Turk called, and Hector cringed again and let go of Morgan's wife to face the two men.

"Yer needed," he said. "Cap'n sent us fer yeh." His expression was neutral, but Hector knew Turk well enough to know his friend was trying not to smirk.

"Ah, well, it looks like our lesson be at an end," he said to Mary, quite relieved. "Thankee fer yer assistance, Lady Morgan."

Mary raised an eyebrow at him. "Don't think that this is finished. I expect to see you here again at the same time tomorrow."

"But..." Hector protested.

"No excuses, Master Barbossa," she said with a knowing smile as she walked away. "I intend to see to it that you learn at least the waltz satisfactorily by the party."

She shot a pointed look back over her should at him. "_Tomorrow_."

Hector watched her walk away for another moment, and then drew his pistol, turned and then handed it to Turk. "I beg that ye jus' shoot me now, an' put me out o' me misery," he said dejectedly.

Both Turk and Harlow now wore wide grins. "Oh, no yeh don't," Turk said, "yeh ain't getting' out of it that easily." He handed the gun back over and Hector put it away.

"_Yes_," Harlow chimed in a gleeful falsetto, mimicking Mrs. Morgan, "_at least not until you've learned to waltz satisfactorily."_

Hector shot him a dirty look. "Shut it, Harlow or I'll..."

"What?" Harlow asked. "Show me how light you are on your feet?"

Turk put a restraining hand on Hector's shoulder when he took a step in Thomas' direction. "Come on, Barbossa, there's a pint with yer name on it waitin' fer yeh."

"Ah," Hector replied, still managing to punch Harlow lightly in the arm, "now that be music to me ears."

--

"Barbossa!"

A cheer went up from the small group of men gathered at a table in the corner of the Whale and Waterspout as Turk and Harlow escorted Hector into the pub for the first time in several months.

Hector grinned as his shipmates clapped him on the back and called for a round to be brought in his honor.

"Glad to have you back, mate," Starkey said with a grin. "Things were getting a bit dull without you on board."

"Yeah, and Hartwell's been pining away after ya," Roberts added smartly, eliciting another round of laughter.

Turk raised his mug and stood up. "I propose a toast," he said, glancing at where Hector was seated. "To the toughest friggin' bloke I know."

Mugs were raised all around the table in Hector's honor as Turk continued. "After all yeh've been through, may the rest o' yer life be easy," he said, raising his own drink to his lips, but then pausing for one last addition accompanied by a wink, "except when yeh want it to be hard."

Another cheer went up from the pirates at the table at Turk's sly comment, and Hector laughed and drank up in agreement. Ten or fifteen minutes of conversation and rowdy laughter had gone by, and Harlow took his turn to harass his friend.

"Damn! Would you look at that?" Harlow exclaimed, and grinned as he got the entire table's attention. "It's been nearly half an hour, and Barbossa ain't found himself a wench for the evenin' yet!" Hector just smiled and shook his head at Harlow's ribbing as he continued. "You losing your charm, Barbossa?"

Harlow, well on his way through his second pint, stood and taunted his friend a bit more. "You'd think the ladies'd be even more inclined to seek your company, now that you're all cultured - knowing poetry and how to waltz an' all!"

Even as the group laughed at Hector's expense, he was thankful to be back on his feet and among his comrades, despite the fact that Turk picked up where Harlow left off.

"A poem!" he cried out to the table as he stood again. "By Hector Barbossa."

Turk launched into his impression of Hector, much to everyone's great amusement, including Hector. "Little lady at the bar, how I be wonderin' what you are. How I wonder what ye'll do, if I grab a kiss from you. Pretty soon, without a doubt, Darlin' I'll be findin' out!" Turk took a bow and sat back down as the even some of the nearby tables joined in the laughter.

"Your turn, Barbossa!" Starkey called. "Let's hear somethin' sweet from yeh!"

"Aye!" the cheer went up from the company at the table.

"All right, gents," Hector replied, smirking even as he stood to oblige, "if ye insist."

"We do!" Harlow and Starkey cried.

"Fine." Hector climbed up on the table, and made it a point of looking thoughtful for a moment and then began, addressing most of the tavern that had turned to pay attention.

" I like the wenches who do,

I admire the ladies who don't,

I hate the ones who say they will,

But when the time comes they won't.

But the girls I like the best of all,

And I think ye'll say I'm right,

Are the ones who say they never will,

But just for me they might."

A cheer went up from most of the tavern when Hector finished reciting, and he took a bow and jumped down, laughing as he seated himself next to Turk again. Only a few more minutes had gone by when Hector felt someone lean over his shoulder, and a familiar woman's voice whispered in his ear.

"Just for you I might," Lilith said, a sly grin on her face when Hector turned to look at who had spoken.

"Aye," he whispered back, "if I cross yer palm with enough silver."

Lilith adopted a playful pout. "A girl has to earn a living, Hector."

"And no doubt ye've managed jus' fine without me," Hector replied, teasing her and starting to turn back away, until Lilith leaned toward his ear and whispered again.

"So, you're fully recovered are you?" she asked.

"Aye," he said, taking a swig from his mug, and still playfully ignoring her.

"I take it everything's in working order, then?" she said, mischief in her whisper.

Hector paused with his mug halfway to his lips. "I assume so," he replied, a touch defensively.

Lilith smirked, knowing she had him. "But you don't know for sure yet, do you?"

Hector set his mug down and stood up, facing her. "Only one way to find out, I reckon." He gave a quick wave in parting to his shipmates who were all shaking their heads as he offered Lilith his arm. "Evenin' gents," he called smugly, and led her out the door.

--

Hector was in fine spirits the next morning as he watched Jedediah backpedal yet again, trying to avoid the furious onslaught of blows from Hector's sword.

"Damn, Barbossa! You're going to kill me!" the older man exclaimed, struggling to defend himself. "What the bloody hell has gotten into you this morning?" He dodged sideways, panting and barely parrying the next attack.

"From what I hear, I'll wager it's probably what he got into last night that's lifted his spirits," Morgan said with amusement, watching Barbossa drive Jedediah back yet again.

"Well, don't just stand there," Jedediah called back, "help me!"

Morgan smiled at the two combatants, and then drew his own sword and stepped in to help Jedediah.

"Yer cheatin'!" Hector exclaimed good-naturedly, now trading blows with both the older pirates, and still holding his own.

"I am practicing the art of self-preservation," Jedediah replied, unsuccessfully trying to find an opening while Morgan lunged at Hector. "I do not care to find myself pinned against that tree again this morning!"

The duel continued, but all three combatants noticed then that a boy of ten or twelve leaned against that particular tree a short distance away, watching excitedly as Hector continued to manage to ward off both other men.

A moment later, Jedediah's sword clattered to the ground again, and Morgan, although a decent swordsman, quickly found himself outmatched, especially once Hector had found that he had an audience. The dark haired boy continued to watch Hector drive Morgan back, quick dark eyes alight with the thrill of the duel, and obviously impressed by the young pirate's skill, by the look on his face.

Hector took advantage of Morgan's slower reflexes, and dashed the sword from his hand, cut the feather off his hat with his backstroke, and leveled the point of his sword at Morgan's heart even as the captain raised his hands in surrender and glanced upward at his hat, now featherless.

"Was that entirely necessary, Barbossa?" he asked with a laugh, lamenting the severed ostrich plume that floated earthward.

Hector lowered his sword, grinning while trying to catch his breath.

"So, you've managed to pluck this fine gamebird, have ya?" A gruff voice spoke from near the tree, and the three breathless combatants looked to see who had spoken. Next to the boy stood the first pirate that Hector had ever seen, and he watched as Captain Teague righted himself from where he'd been leaning against the tree, arms folded across his chest.

"Edward!" Morgan called out cordially. "Could've used your help there a couple of moments ago," he said, still slightly winded, " and perhaps one or two others."

"So I saw," Teague said wryly, approaching the group with the lad. "Quite the quick blade you are, son," he said, meeting Hector's gaze steadily.

"Aye, that be true," Hector said, a bit of a cocky smile tugging at his mouth.

Morgan made the introductions. "Edward, meet Hector Barbossa," he said as the two pirates eyed each other for another moment, and then shook hands. "Hector, Edward Teague, captain of the _Misty Lady_.

"Pleasure," Teague said, his voice gruff and dark like his appearance. He glanced down at the boy standing next to him, who still looked entirely impressed at what he'd witnessed Hector accomplish. "This is my son, Jackie."

The thrilled look on the lad's face quickly faded, and was replaced by a somewhat pained expression. "It's _Jack_, _please_," he said, as if trying to be infinitely patient with his father, and all but rolling his eyes as he extended his hand toward Hector.

"_Jack_," he said once more, as they shook hands, leaving no doubt as how he preferred to be addressed.

--

**A/N:** Ok, now that I've had my bit of lighthearted fun with this chapter, we'll get back to a speck of honest pirating. ;)


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

**--**

If Hector's day had started out fine, after waking up with all his belongings left alone by Lilith, defeating both Jedediah and Morgan simultaneously in an impressive duel, and making the acquaintance of Captain Edward Teague, his day began to slide rapidly downhill nearly the moment he shook hands with young Jack for the first time.

Almost immediately, he could see Mary Morgan headed in the direction of the group of men, skirt in hand as she hurried across the garden to find him, and he felt a wave of panic rising as he realized he was about to be dragged off for another of her lessons.

With no where to hide, now that she'd spotted him, all Hector could do was pray that the wife of such an infamous pirate would have the sense to spare him from announcing that it was time for his lesson in the waltz in front of a such a man as Teague.

While Mary spared Hector any sort of an announcement about what she had in store for him, she clearly was not going to excuse him from his obligation just because it appeared that interesting business in the pirate world was at hand, as was obvious by the fact that Teague had risked coming ashore to meet with Morgan.

Not that the local authorities, or even the EITC dared challenge Morgan directly, with the popularity and great influence he still held in the colony and in much of the Caribbean, but it still was a bit of a risky proposition for a pirate as well known as Edward Teague.

"Ah, Edward!" Mary said, apparently delighted to see Teague as she embraced him and planted a kiss on his cheek. "How good to see you."

She gushed for a moment over Jack, fussing about how tall he'd gotten since she'd last seen him, and Hector wondered whether or not he could make a run for it while she was busy greeting the newcomers.

He realized he was going to have no such luck when she immediately excused herself. "Well, I have so much to do to get ready for the party," she said, turning to eye Hector, "starting with you. Are you ready?"

Hector nodded in silence and followed her along dutifully across toward the level part of her garden near the grand house where they'd been working the day before.

He sulked as he walked several paces behind her, and after a moment he realized that his steps were being dogged by Jack.

"Somethin' ye need, lad?" Hector asked, coolly, briefly glancing down at the dark head of the boy who had trotted to catch up

"Need? No, I'm jus' coming to watch," Jack replied, nonplussed at Hector's less than encouraging tone.

Hector stopped in his tracks and faced the boy. "What do ye mean, yer comin' to watch?"

"Your lesson...how to waltz," Jack replied brightly. "Captain Morgan told me dad the missus was to teach you to dance."

Hector clenched his teeth and counted to ten when he realized that Morgan had told Teague. That was all he needed, and so was this waif following him around. He huffed, irritated, and headed after Mary again, Jack silently trailing him.

"That was a fine duel you had," Jack said, obviously trying to engage Hector in conversation, for which he was clearly not in the mood.

"Thankee, Jack," he replied, not even bothering to look down.

"You must be one of the best swordsmen I've ever seen," Jack continued, clearly impressed with what he'd witnessed.

Hector gave the boy the slightest sideways glance. "Seen a lot of swordsmen, have ye, lad?" he asked, with no little sarcasm.

"Aye," Jack replied, "some of the best, too." He continued to follow along in silence, when Hector gave no reply. Finally, he tried again. "Why is it you don't know how to dance, Hector?"

"That'd be Master Barbossa to ye, and it also be none of yer business," Hector snapped, rolling his eyes in irritation as he walked.

The boy grew more subdued for a moment. "Apologies," he said quietly, as they neared where Mary was waiting.

"It's not hard, you know," Jack chimed in brightly once more.

"_What_ isn't?" Hector stopped dead again in his tracks, his patience beginning to wear thin. It was bad enough that he had to humor Morgan's wife, but why he was being plagued by Teague's whelp was beyond him.

"Dancing. It's easy," Jack continued.

Hector narrowed his eyes at boy in front of him. "And I suppose ye'd know how, young Master Teague?" he snarled quietly.

The youngster missed the sarcasm and perked up again. "Yup."

"And how is it a lad such as yerself would come to know such a thing, might I ask?" Hector continued, catching the fact that Mary was gesturing for him to join her.

"Me mum," Jack replied simply, as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world.

Hector would have made a cutting remark after the boy's comment hit home, but closed his mouth, thinking better of what he'd been about to say, once he'd realized Mary was within earshot. "Ah," was all he said, and he turned to join Mary where she was getting impatient.

--

If Jack had been anyone else but Teague's son, and Teague hadn't been such an old friend of Morgan's, Hector would have grabbed the boy off the stone wall where he sat cross-legged, calling out helpful advice, and throttled him until he turned blue.

"You're steppin' all over 'er feet again!" Jack called out. "Pay attention and keep count in your head!"

"I'll keep count on yer bloody head," Hector muttered, under his breath.

"What, Hector?" Mary asked, not sure what he'd been saying.

"Nothin'," Hector replied, trying to get the hang of the dance. Every time he started to get it, the boy started yelling instructions at him, distracting him and throwing him off.

"Three!" Jack yelled. "Three, the waltz is in three."

"And yer head's going to be three feet from yer neck in about three seconds," Hector muttered again. He stepped on Mary's foot again in his distraction and she brought them to a stop patiently, willing to start again.

"You're not making any progress," Jack said honestly, not realizing how his blunt statement would affect Barbossa.

Hector let go of Mary, completely exasperated. "And I suppose that ye can do better?" he snarled in the boy's direction.

Jack hopped of the wall, and flashed a winning smile as he landed. "Course," he replied.

Hector smirked with irritation and waved Jack by with a mocking flourish. "Be my guest," he snarled, as the young lad walked up to Morgan's wife.

By the time Mary Morgan was giggling like a schoolgirl, being twirled around the garden by her young partner, Hector was fingering his pistol, debating what the odds were that he could get a clear shot off and hit the boy without harming Mary. They were pretty good, he figured, as the boy was a lot bigger than and moving considerably slower than the rabbits he'd picked off so frequently in the past.

"See?" Jack called over his shoulder. "Nothin' to it."

Hector flashed him an irritated smirk that the boy took to be a smile.

--

Hector's day didn't get any better once he was released from being tormented by Mary and Jack, for when he finally managed to escape and drag himself into the _Whale and Waterspout_ to catch up with his shipmates for a pint, none of them could resist having a bit of fun at his expense.

As soon as he approached the table they were seated at, Roberts and Starkey immediately sprang to their feet, gathering each other up in a parody of a dance as they hummed a waltz aloud, and twirled each other about the tavern. Turk adeptly sprang to his feet to grab Hector when he saw the dangerous look cross his face and his hand start to reach for his sword.

"Come on, mate," Turk said, dragging a displeased Barbossa out the back door of the pub, even as Hector glared at his laughing shipmates over his shoulder. "Yer right outta sorts, if yeh can't take 'em havin' a laugh or two about yer situation."

"I s'pose," Hector said, as the two of them walked along together away from the pub. "It's just that the captain's missus is driving me mad with this dancin' business, and tomorrow she's threatened to drag me along to find somethin' _suitable_ fer me to wear to her blasted party."

"Your blasted party, Barbossa," Turk reminded him. "Yeh need to lighten the fuck up and live a little." He jerked his head back toward the direction of the _Whale and Waterspout_. "Them idiots will be sittin' in there with each other, and yeh'll be the one at a fine to-do, eatin' fine food, and dancin' with fine ladies wearing fine, low cut dresses."

Hector grunted an acknowledgement at him.

Turk raised an eyebrow at him. "You _are_ outta sorts if I can't even perk yeh up with a comment like that."

Hector waived him off. "I reckon yer right. It's jus' I've been tormented all day by Teague's annoyin' whelp."

"That so?" Turk asked, curiously.

Barbossa shook his head, dismissing Turk's questioning look. "'Tis not worth frettin' over. He's left with Teague on the tide, and I'll not have to put up with his smart mouth again."

--

"Hand it over."

Mary Morgan stood before Hector, one hand on her hip and the other held out in front of her expectantly.

"No."

"Hector, really," she admonished, taking a step toward him as he took another step back, "it's just awful, and I think it'd be…"

"It's not awful," Hector replied, defensively, "beside, yer husband be the one as gave it to me." He covered his ear protectively when she reached one last time for the alligator tooth that always hung there.

"Honestly, you could do without it for one evening," she tried again, and then seeing the stubborn look he'd adopted, decided to let the argument drop. She had won all the other battles for the evening, and Hector stood before her washed, auburn hair combed back neatly and tied at his neck, and wearing expensive clothes that she'd picked out herself. She'd even managed to get him to shave the four or five days' worth of scraggly beard growth that he was accustomed to running about with, but he wasn't giving in about the earring.

"Alright, fine, you win," she said, "but don't blame me if it scares the ladies off, thinking you're a pirate."

Hector returned the wry smile she wore.

--

Turk had been right, of course, and when Hector walked into the grand ballroom in the Morgans' house, it was filled with the upper crust of Port Royal society, including the governor himself, and tables of fantastic food lined the periphery of the room.

Interestingly enough, there were indeed a fair number of attractive young women wearing low cut gowns, as Turk had suggested, but the thing that caught Hector's attention first, was the fact that just across the room, Morgan stood conversing with none other than Charles Beckett. Apparently, for the sake of the evening, all differences were to be left at the door, and everyone was to leave accusation and animosity outside, and agree to play nice for a few hours.

Unable to resist the urge to flaunt his recovery in Beckett's face, Hector went to stand by Morgan's side. "Evenin' Cap'n," he said pleasantly, "it appears that yer missus has completely outdone 'erself."

"Ah, Hector," Morgan said, clapping him on the shoulder, "I'm sure you remember Charles Beckett?"

Hector met Beckett's steady stare as they shook hands to maintain appearances. "'Tis not a name I'd ferget anytime soon," Hector replied as pleasantly as he could before he let go.

"Nor is yours," Beckett replied coolly, finally looking away from Hector's challenging stare, and turning back to Morgan. "I urge you to reconsider, Henry," he said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must have a word with the governor."

Beckett left and Hector looked to Morgan. "What was that about?"

Morgan smiled pleasantly, although Hector knew him well enough to recognize the fact that the smile didn't reach his eyes. "We'll talk later," he said, and then he brightened up. "Tonight, my dear lad, we must play at being gentlemen, and tomorrow we can go back to being scalawags. Ah, Julia, my dear."

Hector's gaze followed where Morgan's had traveled to a young woman who was approaching with his wife, and he decided upon taking in the cascades of dark red curls, green eyes and creamy skin, which her dress revealed a tantalizing amount of, that he was very glad that Mary had dragged him to the party.

"…my niece, Julia Morgan," Mary was saying, Hector realized after a brief moment, having been too preoccupied to have heard the first part of the introduction.

"'Tis indeed a pleasure to meet you, Miss Morgan," Hector replied, giving her his most charming smile.

"And you, Mr. Barbossa," Julia replied, flashing a shy smile that Hector found completely alluring. "My aunt has told me much about you, and I've so longed to make your acquaintance."

Mary chimed in. "Perhaps you will ask my niece to dance later, so that you might have a chance to get to know one another?"

"Only if I know ahead of time that she'll not be breakin' my heart by declinin' the invitation," Hector replied, flirting already and causing Julia to blush demurely. Mary frowned at him.

"It would be unseemly for me to decline at a party thrown in your honor, Mr. Barbossa," Julia replied.

A waltz started in the background. "Then mayhap the next waltz might find the second fairest flower in the room on me arm?" Hector asked Julia, earning himself a bit of an unsure smile and nod of agreement from her. He winked at her. "This one be fer the fairest flower in the room," he added, offering his arm to Mary as Julia smiled brightly the second time.

Mary's mouth nearly fell open, and then she laughed and took the arm that Hector proffered, letting him lead her out onto the dance floor. "You're quite the charmer when you want to be," she said laughingly, placing her hand on his shoulder.

"I said nothin' that not be true, M'lady," Hector replied, putting his hand on her waist and leading her into the dance.

"You just wanted a chance to practice once before you danced with my niece, didn't you?" Mary accused him slyly.

Hector smirked. "I'll admit nothin' other than I've been lookin' forward to dancin' with ye all week," he replied smoothly.

"Liar," Mary said softly, laughing again. "You're dangerous when you're being so charming, Hector Barbossa."

"Ye've no idea," Hector replied smugly, deciding that he was actually enjoying himself.

"Oh, but I do," Mary replied as they continued their dance, "which is why I'll be keeping a close eye on you with my niece. I saw the way you were looking at her."

"Ye wound me, woman," Hector whispered dramatically, letting go of her waist for an instant to clutch at his heart, "that ye think I'd consider layin' an inappropriate finger on her!"

Mary still smiled but whispered back to him as they danced. "It's not really your fingers that concern me, Hector."

He glanced back at her, trying not to smirk at her comment, but couldn't refrain from laughing after she smiled again and whispered one last word in his ear.

"Pirate."

--

Later in the evening, Morgan stood with his wife, watching their guests talking and dancing, and he brightened when he saw the man walking his way and went to shake his hand. "Cezar, you've no idea how glad I am that you came," he said graciously.

"I wanted the chance to thank you for everything you've done for Hector," Cezar said, obviously meaning what he said and putting aside the differences he'd had with Morgan about Hector in the past.

"Trivial," Morgan replied in earnest, "after what he did for me. Like as not it would have been the end of me."

"That would be a shame, seeing it would mean he'd have one less good friend," Cezar replied, making a great effort to be cordial. "Where is he, anyway?"

Morgan gave Cezar a wry smile. "Three guesses."

Cezar glanced about the crowded room until his eyes came to rest on a group of six or seven young women who were obviously quite engrossed with something. He shook his head and smiled, looking back at Morgan.

"I don't know what he's telling them," Morgan said, " but he's had their undivided attention for at least half an hour, now."

"Why is it I am not surprised?" Cezar said with a laugh. A collective gasp went up from the group of women surrounding Hector across the room, and he turned back to Morgan. "It must be the alligator story."

"Ah, yes, he gets a great reaction to that one from the ladies, doesn't he?" Morgan asked. "You know, Cezar, just between the two of us," he said in a conspiratorial manner, "I fretted that the mark his injury has left upon him would be off-putting to any eligible young ladies, but it seems as if he's gathered quite the air of mystique because of it."

Cezar knew Morgan spoke of Hector's still fairly pronounced limp. "Mystique and an entire _collection_ of eligible young ladies," he replied, wryly. "I'm going to see if I can rescue him from his dismal fate for at least a few moments."

"Would that we might have to endure such a fate, eh, Cezar?" Morgan laughed.

--

Having managed to actually enjoy Mary Morgan's party to a great extent, Hector dragged himself out of bed the next morning with a slight headache derived from consuming too much champagne. He hadn't quite been able to determine if he liked the stuff or not, and kept helping himself to more every time a servant went by with a tray of full glasses, sipping it and trying to make up his mind about it.

The food had been a different story altogether, and likely he would have stuffed himself to the gills with all the fine delicacies that Mary had provided if it weren't for the fact that he'd spent so much time dancing with Morgan's niece and in the company of a number of quite lovely young ladies.

Hector shrugged himself into a shirt as his thoughts returned to Julia, Morgan's lovely niece with the porcelain skin and volumes of cascading red hair. While he knew he certainly would never have done anything but look, he couldn't help but daydream a bit about what it might have been like to wake up next to her that morning.

Or Cassandra, the chestnut haired beauty with the freckles, infectious laugh, and amazing cleavage. Hector continued his fantasizing a bit while he pulled on his boots. He wouldn't have minded having her spend the night in his bed either.

He shrugged into the fine coat he'd been wearing the night before.

"Or both," he said to himself with a grin. Why not? It was _his_ daydream after all. He picked up his sword and headed for the docks.

--

The _Oxford_, refitted with a new mainmast and a fresh coat of paint, Hector decided upon seeing her, was lovely enough to rival all the beauties from the night before, and he felt more spring in his uneven step than he had in a long time as he strode up the gangplank for the first time in months.

Harlow was across the deck speaking with Roberts, and Hector would have headed their way if it weren't for someone speaking to him from just over his shoulder.

"What the fuck you wearin', Barbossa?" Turk asked, standing there with his arms folded across his chest and scrutinizing Hector's attire with a smirk plastered firmly on his face.

Hector glanced down at himself and then frowned at Turk. "What's wrong with what I be wearin'?"

"Nothin', if you was at yer fancy-shmancy party," Turk retorted with a laugh, "but on the ship? You been hangin' around Morgan too long."

"'Tis always a party with you around," Hector returned snidely, pinching Turk in the chest as he walked by him toward Morgan's cabin. "Too bad yer tits aren't as nice as the ones last night."

Turk rubbed his smarting skin for a minute and followed Hector. "So, are yeh going to tell me or not?"

"About the sea of low cut dresses?" Hector asked as he knocked on the door. "The ocean of plunging necklines?

"Yeah," Turk said hopefully.

Hector grinned at him again. "No." He ducked into the cabin and shut the door behind him, leaving a frustrated Turk on the other side.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

**--**

Morgan, despite the fact that he'd enjoyed a lovely party the night before, and was pleased more than anything to have Hector back on his ship, was not in a good mood when Hector entered the cabin.

He'd just shut the door behind him when he witnessed Morgan slamming his palms against the table in front of him and cursing where he stood.

"Bloody hell!" Morgan snarled, and then looked up to see Hector waiting. "Morning, Barbossa."

"Mornin' Cap'n," Hector said tentatively. It had been a very rare thing for him to witness Morgan's ire over the years that he'd known him, but there were a few occasions he'd been privy to that made him glad that he was in Morgan's good graces.

"Sit." Morgan gestured at the table. "We need to talk."

Hector complied, knowing Morgan's mood and tone couldn't mean anything good.

"I'll get right to the point, Barbossa," Morgan said, pacing a little in his agitation while he spoke. "I've been given a less than subtle ultimatum by Charles Beckett."

"Beckett?" Hector fairly spat the distasteful name.

"Evidently he feels that his beloved EITC has gained enough footing in the Caribbean that he's in a position to intimidate me," Morgan grumbled.

"Is he?" Hector asked, sorry he had the audacity to ask the question immediately after he'd done so.

Morgan turned from where he was still pacing and fixed an intense gaze on the younger man's face, and Hector was afraid he'd crossed a line with the captain. "No," Morgan said, after a moment, "but that doesn't mean that he isn't a ruddy pain in my fucking arse." He heaved an exasperated sigh and pulled out a chair to sit down.

"He's suggested that the EITC will redouble its efforts and manpower to harass my ships and the Brethren in general, unless I agree to a partnership with him," Morgan explained, as he gathered his composure once again. "He wants me to help him thin out those pirates that aren't directly under my influence, and guarantee the safety of his ships."

"I'd wager ye aren't of a mind to agree to his proposal?" Hector inquired.

"Of course not." Morgan finally smiled a bit. "Beckett, with his overblown ambition, is out of his league still, at the moment."

"At the moment?" Hector asked, not liking the older man's statement.

Morgan sighed again heavily. "Aye, Barbossa, _at the moment_. The day will come when men like Charles Beckett and companies like the EITC will determine the future of the Caribbean. After all, money is money, and power is power, but that day, if I have anything to say about it, is not today."

Hector looked thoughtful for a few moments before he spoke again. "Why is it that ye tell this to me?"

"Should I not?" Morgan asked, slyly. "I can trust you, can't I, Barbossa?"

"As much as ye can trust anyone, I reckon," Hector replied, wryly.

Morgan smiled for a brief moment at the younger man's comment and then sobered. "I should hope so. I thought the same thing about Hartwell, but now I'm not so sure."

"Hartwell?" Hector asked, not bothering to hide the substantial contempt contained in the one word he spoke.

"He thinks we should take Beckett up on his proposal," Morgan replied.

"And ye'd be worried that he'll jump ship, so to speak, even though ye said no," Hector replied, guessing the rest easily.

"Perhaps." Morgan nodded once, and remained silent, staring at the table between them for a long moment before speaking again. "Whether we join or resist, things are going to get immensely more difficult as time marches on. They'll just get more difficult a bit later if we resist Beckett."

"Then I vote fer bein' a ruddy pain in _his_ fuckin' arse," Hector replied.

"I shall have less and less ability to keep the EITC and the navy at bay, Barbossa," Morgan replied meaningfully, and then changed subjects a little.

"I've given Hartwell his own ship."

"_The Oxford_?" Hector asked sharply.

"_The Centaur_," Morgan replied, amused a little at the younger man's attachment to his own favorite vessel. "I've dispatched him to fetch a number of ships to return from Puerto Bello and Maracaibo."

"Flexin' a bit o' muscle, are ye?" Hector replied, understanding that Beckett would likely be intimidated when he understood even a fraction of the number of pirates and Brethren of the Coast that swore allegiance to or maintained accords with Morgan.

"You might say that," Morgan replied, " as well as keeping Hartwell out of the thick of things for a period of time."

"Think ye givin' him his own ship as ye promised will keep him as yer man?" Hector asked, trying to sound casual about the question.

"Yes, but I wouldn't stake my life on it," Morgan replied evenly.

"Neither would I," Hector agreed.

--

"Morgan wants you to do _what_?" Harlow asked, from where he walked alongside Hector, opposite from where Turk accompanied them.

"Acquire me own ship," Hector repeated for the third time. "He's asked me to captain a ship fer 'im, but told me I have to find one meself."

"Stealing a ship is no small crime, Hector," Harlow fretted.

"Thomas, what the bloody hell do yeh think it is we do fer a livin'?" Turk asked. "Why would stealin' a ship outta port be any dif'ren' than capturin' one at sea?"

"Good point," Harlow replied, grinning sheepishly.

"Where is it Morgan says yeh can find this ship he's speakin' of?" Turk asked Hector as they walked.

"Malagueña," Hector replied, lost in his own thoughts as they arrived at the _Oxford_.

"Mala...Barbosssa, that town is completely run by the EITC. Are you sure this is a good idea?" Harlow continued to fret.

Hector frowned at him pointedly and boarded the _Oxford_, leaving him standing with Turk.

"Yeh know," Turk replied, " fer a pirate, yeh worry more'n my granny does about stupid shit."

"Stealing a ship from the EITC is not stupid shit," Harlow replied, somewhat defensively.

Turk grinned at him. "Yer right about that, an if anyone can pull it off, it'd be Morgan or Barbossa." He punched Harlow gleefully in the arm and strode onto the _Oxford_ behind Hector.

"God, I hope so," Harlow fretted, following and rubbing his arm.

--

Hector walked around the captain's cabin of the _Oxford_, relishing the fact that for the moment, it was his. The fact that Hartwell was off to Panama and Morgan was busy with politics in Jamaica, left him in charge of the crew, and he couldn't rightly say that it wasn't something he'd wanted for a while.

He'd made himself comfortable in Morgan's chair, and propped his feet up on the table, groaning a little at the stiffness that plagued him from his still resolving injuries, when the knock came at the door.

"Enter," he called, taking a bite of the apple he'd brought with him, and watching as Turk let himself into the cabin.

"Look at yeh, yeh bloody cockerel," Turk said with a smirk, "dressed in that pretty coat and sittin' in Morgan's chair. Yeh'd think yeh be the Pirate Lord of the Caribbean by the way yeh've been swaggerin' 'round the ship."

"Don't be ridiculous," Hector admonished him with his own smirk, "that'll not likely be fer at least another week or two."

Turk laughed out loud. "Bugger me if I live to see the day yeh be Lord of the Caribbean, Barbossa." He held up his hand, and then snagged the apple Hector tossed at him, taking a bite himself.

"Who says I'm not?" Hector asked smugly, gesturing at the ship around him.

"Well, Cap'n Pirate Lord, why don't yeh tell me what yeh'd like us to do about the ship sittin' off'n the port bow?" Turk asked, still grinning. He tossed the apple back at Hector, who caught it deftly and took another bite.

"Merchant?" Hector asked, dropping his feet back to the floor and rising to his feet just a little stiffly.

"EITC," Turk replied. "She's flyin' their colors.

Hector frowned as he thought it over. "Nothin'," he replied at last. "I think it best we avoid them altogether fer now. I want to get in an' out of Malagueña as quickly and smoothly as possible."

He leaned over a map on the table with Turk, and pointed. "Set a course fer Isla Verde, here. 'Tis a good place to lay low fer a day or so to avoid the Indiaman."

"Aye, Cap'n," Turk replied, "Isla Verde it is."

--

Isla Verde was largely uninhabited, save for a small settlement on her southern aspect, at which a fair number of ships stopped on their way across the Caribbean to restock their water supply. The northern side boasted a deep cove that cut into the interior of the island a fair distance, and although it was a bit of a dead end, it provided a perfect hiding spot for any ship that wished to disappear for a period of time. As the crow would fly, the cove was not far from the settlement on the opposite side of the island, but few sailors knew of it, and Hector knew that it existed thanks to sailing with Morgan for several years.

The _Oxford_ sat becalmed in the lagoon, hidden completely from any ship that might be passing the island. Hector, knowing that they'd stay for probably a full day, took advantage of the situation, and went ashore with a small hunting party, intending to bring back some fresh game while they had the opportunity.

Harlow, Turk, Starkey and Roberts were accompanying him back toward where the ship was anchored, after successfully bringing down a large number of red-headed ducks. They'd been traversing a small swampy area for a while in uneasy silence, and Roberts finally spoke to the rest of the group.

"Kinda like déjà vu, eh?" he said, recalling the last time their particular group had gone hunting for game in the swamp of an island.

Hector nodded in acknowledgement that he'd heard, but said nothing else, thinking of the ill-fated Banks, and how he'd nearly met his own demise in the jaws of the huge alligator.

"Yeah, creepy," Turk agreed, noting that advanced dusk was even the correct time of day. "We're headin' straight fer the ship this time. Barbossa's been beat to hell enough without us decidin' to use 'im as gator bait again."

"Aye, that be true," Hector said softly, from the head of the group. "I'd prefer we get out of this stinkin' swamp sooner rather'n later..." He stopped suddenly and held up his hand to signal the others to stop. "What was that?" he whispered sharply.

The four others stopped in their tracks, and listened carefully, straining their ears to catch any sound for a long moment.

"Ahhhh!" Harlow screamed out loud when Turk grabbed his arm and cried 'gotcha', and Hector laughed along with the others.

"Not funny," Harlow pouted. "You nearly scared the shit out of me."

"Yeh scream like a woman," Turk said, giving his friend a hard time as the group resumed trekking through the marsh.

"I do not," Harlow argued.

A woman's agonized scream pierced the gathering dark around the hunting party, and they all stopped dead in their tracks again.

"See?" Harlow whispered, "I don't sound anything like that."

"Shhh!" Hector said, listening carefully for any other indication of where the scream might have come from.

"I don't like this," Roberts whispered. "Let's get back to the ship."

A moment later, several distant but indistinct voices could be heard across the marsh, including a frantic woman's voice, followed by a what sounded like a short cry of pain from her.

Hector put his hand on his sword, and veered determinedly off in the direction of the voices.

"What's he doing?" Starkey asked, glancing at Turk, who appeared to be deciding to follow Hector.

"Bloody hell if I know, but when have yeh known him to be able to resist a woman in trouble?" Turk asked, obviously exasperated even as he headed after Hector.

Starkey glanced from Harlow back to Roberts. "He's gonna get laid, ain't he? Fuck me if Barbossa doesn't end up with that screaming woman in his cabin, being eternally grateful for her rescue."

Harlow rolled his eyes and went after the others. "Would it surprise either of you?"

Starkey and Roberts ran after the others, hands on their swords as Starkey continued complaining. "She's probably some curvy little blonde thing with long legs, too."

"Maybe she'll be ugly," Roberts chimed in hopefully.

"With warts and boils," Starkey added.

"And six toes," Roberts replied, causing Starkey to stop and take him by the arm.

"Wait," Starkey said, "you tellin' me that you wouldn't bed a wench just because she had six toes?"

"Not if'n she had warts and boils too," Roberts replied.

"Would you idiots shut the fuck up?" Turk admonished them from where he was crouching next to Hector, peering through the rushes that lined the marsh and overlooked a section of beach.

Ahead of them, the five shipmates could see a group of men who were making their way across the shore as the sun set, toward what looked like a large pile of wood around a tall stake. They were being led by a man dressed in black that appeared to be carrying a thick book, and being dragged along behind the group, was a woman who was fighting the men who had bound her for all she was worth.

What Hector and Turk and company might not have been aware of, was that the Puritan migration to the New World had extended to the Caribbean, and along with it the fear-driven persecution of those individuals that they deemed dangerous or too different from what they considered the correct way of life. Throughout the late 1600's and early 1700's people were being exterminated after being accused of consorting with the Devil, although the most infamous of those exterminations had taken place far to the west, in a tiny fishing village known as Salem, in the young colony of Massachussetts.

Unfortunately for those individuals who did not adhere to some manner of Christian faith, the Puritan fear of the heathen gods and devils they worshipped bode ill for many of them, including a certain Obeah woman who roamed the Caribbean looking for a place that she might settle again for a time. That woman, who had thought to establish herself on the outskirts of the small settlement on Isla Verde, was currently bound and being dragged across the beach toward the pyre that was intended to be her demise, and to purify her supposedly wicked soul.

When Hector assessed the situation from the edge of the beach with his shipmates, he had no idea at that moment that what he was about to do would be one of the very best and the very worst things that would ever happen to him.

It was likely that some part of him would have been motivated to interfere, based solely on the fact that a helpless appearing woman was being handled roughly by the group of men who were dragging her bodily across the sand as she cursed them, but when he realized that the men on the beach intended to burn her at the stake, the painful thoughts that he'd buried for a long while of his mother's death in the conflagration at the chuch in Padstow rose like bile within him, and a storm gathered behind the steel blue eyes that watched the beach.

Before the others even had time to realize what was happening, Hector stood and strode purposefully across the sand, jaw set determinedly, and hand firmly on the hilt of his sword.


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N:** Apologies for the long time between updates. I've not had as much time to write as I would like lately, and much of my time was spent caring for my own critically ill kitty, Mowgli while he was in ICU at work with me for a week and a half. It broke my heart last week when I had to make the decision to euthanize him when he continued to deteriorate from multiple issues. He was an unforgettable little personality that made an awful lot of people smile, and he will be greatly missed.

--

**Chapter Thirty**

**--**

Harlow's mouth fell open in disbelief as he watched Hector suddenly stand and make for the group of men on the beach ahead of them. "What's he think he's doing?" he asked in a frantic whisper.

"Shut it!" Turk whispered back, carefully monitoring what the group's response was to Barbossa striding across the sand toward them.

It was the woman who spotted Hector first, and she went silent, no longer cursing her captors as she monitored his approach with apparent interest.

"'Bout time you shut your trap," one of the men dragging her by her arm muttered, shaking her once for emphasis. He saw the malevolent gaze she turned on him and laughed. "Right spirited little strumpet, ain't you? We'll see how spirited you are once that torch meets that pile." He nodded in the direction of the stake.

Hector had taken count of the men; twelve in addition to the man leading the party across the beach, and it although it appeared that most of them were armed, they bore the look of townsfolk and not of seasoned fighters.

He stopped not far from where they were gathering near the stake, planting his feet and folding his arms across his chest, and he noted that the woman in their midst, dark of hair and of skin, was watching him intently. "Evenin' gents," he said, startling the remainder of the group and causing them to face him.

"Forgive me intrusion, but I'm curious as to what it is ye'd be doin'?" he asked, knowing already that it wasn't anything good.

"Doing?" the man with the book, obviously the leader of the group, asked back? "Why God's work, lad."

Hector frowned as he spoke back. "An' God's work requires ye to handle a woman in such a brutal manner, does it?" His eyes met the steady gaze of the woman, and he found it curious that she neither cried to him for help nor looked afraid of what fate was about to befall her.

"This _woman_, has been found guilty of consorting with the Devil," the leader explained. "Her actions have condemned her soul, and we seek only to put an end to her blasphemous actions and purify her so that she may not spend an eternity in Hell."

"By seein' to it that she face Hell before death, opposed to after," Hector sneered, indicating the pyre with a nod of his head.

"It is the only way..."

"Seems as if the lady wishes not to be purified," Hector replied sarcastically, cutting him off.

"She is not in her right mind, having been corrupted by..."

Hector interrupted him again by speaking to the woman. "Is it yer wish to be purified by these men?"

She gazed back steadily, and shook her head very slowly. "No."

"Are ye of sound mind?" Hector asked, disregarding the others who were beginning to mutter among themselves.

The dark skinned woman looked as if she nearly smiled. "Yes. Is dis form dat is corrupt, but de mind still sharp."

Hector didn't understand exactly what she meant, but her answer confirmed what they all knew already –that she had no desire whatsoever to be tortured in the name of the god they served.

"Ah, so there's been a mistake," Hector said. "'Tis obvious that despite yer good intentions ye've found an unwillin' victim."

"There has been no mistake," the man in black replied, now sounding angry.

"An' I say there has been," Hector replied, uncrossing his arms and stepping forward with his hand on his sword. "'Tis a simple matter to remedy. You let the lady go free, and all thirteen of ye return to yer homes unharmed."

"This is not your concern," the leader snarled. "This woman..."

"This woman will accompany me off this beach unharmed," Hector said, the veiled threat in his words more apparent once he'd drawn his sword.

Two men kept hold on their captive as ten others drew their own weapons, and the leader with the book smiled unpleasantly. "As I said, this is not any of your concern."

"Shame ye didn't heed me warnin'," Hector replied arrogantly.

The man in black gestured at the company on the beach, and ten of them stepped toward Hector as the remaining two dragged the woman the short distance to the stake, and she began crying out again, cursing them in a language that Hector didn't understand.

"Merda!" Hector swore under his breath, not having anticipated engaging ten at once. His hand flashed to his belt and then flung the dagger that hung there, and one of the ten hit the sand, the dagger buried deep in his throat. Hector deflected the first blow aimed at him, ducked the next, and reached around his back to draw the second sword he often carried, spinning back to face three men with both blades in hand.

"I could use a little help here!" he cried, both swords clashing against those of an opponent, as he kicked his third attacker in the groin. The man dropped to his knees and Hector deflected the next two blows and kicked the disabled man in the face, causing him to topple over on the beach. Another took his place, and Hector had to backpedal to avoid injury, taking a second to stomp the prone man in the face as he did so.

One of the three found a sword through his ribs, and Barbossa yanked it out in time to elbow a fourth attacker in the face, breaking the man's nose with a sickening crunch, causing the man to drop his sword and grab his face as blood poured through his fingers.

"Bloody fuckin' hell!" Hector cried, diving to the sand to avoid the current three swordsmen, and rolling back to his feet. "Where are yeh, yeh bunch of gutless pansies?" he cried, suddenly trapped between the three he'd just avoided, and the next group of four coming up on his flank.

Two of the men let out a cry behind him, and fell into the dirt as Harlow and Turk each disabled one from behind.

"Quit yer whinin'," Turk said, grinning at where Hector was still defending himself frantically against three, as he and Harlow engaged the other two.

When Starkey and Roberts jumped into the milieu, the two men who had tied the woman to the stake ran to aid their faltering comrades, and Hector suddenly realized the cries from the woman were not cries of fear, but that she was trying to get his attention.

"Barbossa!" she cried, surprising him when she called his name in her heavy accent. "Barbossa, say 'I unbind yuh'," she called out.

"What?" he demanded, preoccupied with the battle he was engaged in, still facing two swordsmen.

She glanced only for a second at where the man in black was dipping his torch to ignite the wood around her feet, and then back to the pirate across the beach. "Say it!" she ordered, even as the flames began to take hold of the driftwood piled around her feet.

Hector ducked a blow and ran one of his opponents through. "I unbind ye!" he cried, not understanding what it was exactly that she wanted, but feeling as if he were compelled to speak. Each of his four companions was occupied by a swordsman, as he faced the remaining two, unable to get free long enough to get closer to where the woman was now in jeopardy of being burned alive.

He saw how quickly the flames were gathering momentum, and knew she didn't have very long. They leapt up, obscuring the view of the woman at the stake. Making one last valiant attempt, Hector charged the opponent he faced on his left, ducking under the blow meant for him and sprinting across the sand with both hot in pursuit, only feet behind him. He heard the woman cry out horribly, cringing inside as she did, but it took a minute for the fact that her cry was one of anger, and not one of pain to register in his brain.

One of his pursuers tripped him up from behind, sending him sprawling headlong into the sand, and Hector instantly rolled left, avoiding the sword that buried itself in the sand inches away from where his throat would have been seconds before. Unfortunately, dodging the one pursuer suddenly left him lying on his back, unable to move away again in time as the second man was already plunging his sword downward. Hector swung both his swords upward, crossing them and catching the blade, stopping it a foot from his chest. He didn't think he'd be able to block another blow from his disadvantaged position, and would have been in dire straights, had not the man standing over him suddenly gasp in surprise, and Turk's blade appeared below his ribs, exiting the terrible wound where the sword had been plunged into his back.

"Thanks, matey," Hector gasped, even as Harlow dispatched the second of his opponents, and Turk offered a hand down to grasp him by the arm and drag him back to his feet. He turned instantly to the fire which had consumed nearly the whole pyre by then, and his heart sank, thinking for an instant that he'd failed the woman he'd intended to rescue from being immolated as his mother likely had been in the church.

He hung his head, doubled over with his hands resting on his knees, panting to catch his breath, and suddenly Turk nudged his arm.

"What do yeh make of that?" Turk asked, pointing to a point just across the beach.

Hector glanced where Turk indicated. There, backing away in terror from the woman that had somehow escaped the fire, was the leader of the fanatic group, holding the book he carried out in front of him, as if to ward her off with it. From what he could see, the woman carried no weapon of any sort, and was considerable smaller in stature than the tall man in black, but there was no mistaking the horror and loathing that were etched firmly across his face.

She spoke words that he could not make out from her soft tone, and he had the impression that he wouldn't have been able to understand them had he been within earshot. She walked steadily toward the man in black, causing him to continue to back away, heading as he did so closer and closer to the water at his back.

Thinking to go to her aid, Hector straightened up, and tucking away his second blade, strode forward with sword in hand. He stopped in his tracks when the dark-skinned woman suddenly through out a hand in a halting gesture toward him, speaking only the word 'stay' at him, even though her gaze never left the man who was cowering away from her and ankle deep in the waves lapping at the shore.

Unsure why he did so, Hector stopped where he was, but kept his sword at the ready in the event the man made trouble.

"You will burn in Hell," he snarled at her, still backing away fearfully, as if she were somehow revolting and threatening.

"What yuh know of Hell?" she asked him, clearly enough so that the others present on the beach could hear? "Huh? Yuh tink yuh know aall, an' so very, very little yuh truly know."

She advanced upon him another few steps, her bare feet now in the water, and her long ragged dress trailing around her on the waves that caressed her ankles. "Foolish… arrogant…deceived," she said bitterly, taking a sudden step toward the man with the book, causing him to cry out wordlessly and lurch backward.

"She-devil!" he spat at her. "You will suffer an eternity!"

Hector could tell even in the dark that she nodded at him. "Yes, dat is true," she said cryptically, "but not for da reason yuh tink." She pulled up her skirts a little with one hand, keeping them from dragging, and bent casually to draw her fingers through the water, appearing to do so almost lovingly. She then righted herself and gazed defiantly back at her former oppressor. "Yuh will suffer also...but not so long I tink."

Hector couldn't see the unpleasant smile that crossed her face, nor the intensity of the gaze she turned on the man in black, but he and his three companions startled, jumping and cringing as the man suddenly let out an agonized scream, lurching toward the woman as he did so.

For an instant Hector started forward, thinking the man to be threatening her, but a second later he realized that the man had only appeared to lunge at her as he fell forward as if something had powerfully yanked his legs back and out from under him. The book flew free, and the man in black, uttering the most horrible scream Hector thought he'd ever heard from a human being, was silenced as he disappeared beneath the waves, gone in an instant as if dragged by something large and unseen into the dark water.

The only sound for a long moment, since the townsfolk had all been killed by the pirates, was that of the waves lapping rhythmically at the shore, and the five pirates stood near one another, exchanging puzzled and wary glances as the woman before them stood calf-deep in the water, staring at the book that still bobbed in the gentle surf.

Hector was about to speak, when she snapped the fingers of the hand not holding her skirt out of the water, and a large tentacle snaked out of the water, whipcord fast, and yanked the book under the waves to follow after its unfortunate owner.

He tried to take a step back, but collided with Turk, who had instantly stepped behind him, as the others had done when the book was dashed away. Hector stood there as the woman turned to face him with a midnight gaze, his five companions doing their best to appear inconspicuous behind him as she slowly came forward.

Hector could hear Harlow fretting behind him next to Turk. "I knew this was a bad idea! I knew it!" he whispered.

"Shut it!" Turk whispered back, even as the woman came to stand before them.

Hector stood there meeting her unreadable gaze for a long moment, unsure what he'd just been witness to, and not entirely sure he should put away the sword still in his hand. He wasn't positive he felt any more at ease when a smile slowly spread across the woman's lips, and she spoke, addressing him once more by name.

"Menny tanks, I owe yuh, Hectah Barbossa," she said softly.

Harlow fretted more behind him somewhere. "She's knows his name! Why does she know his name? Oh, this isn't good at all!" he whispered.

"Would yeh shut it, Harlow?" Turk snapped again in a whisper, not liking the situation any more that his shipmate did.

Hector cleared his throat, and did his best to keep his voice even. "Might I ask how it is that ye would know my name?"

"De same way dat I know menny tings about yuh," she replied, sauntering slowly closer.

"Ah," Hector replied, not really knowing what to say in reply to such an answer.

The woman came within arm's reach and paused, casting a glance about the beach at the bodies that lay strewn about. "We should go," she said, walking past the five pirates and heading in the direction of the _Oxford_.

"We?" Hector asked, turning toward where she had gone, his four companions moving at the same time to keep him between them and the mysterious woman.

"Yes," she called back softly, still walking way. "De ship is dis way?"

The second the woman entered the rushes they had come through and disappeared from sight, frantic whispered discussion broke out.

"She can't mean to come on our ship!" Harlow said, looking worriedly from Hector to Turk.

"Apparently that be her intent," Hector replied, his gaze still on the spot where the woman had gone.

"I don't like it, Barbossa," Starkey chimed in. "There's som'thin' not right about that woman."

Hector looked to Turk, who shrugged. "Yer call, mate. I reckon we don' have much of a choice."

"Yuh don't," the woman's voice called back through the dark, followed by a light little laugh.

"Well," Hector said, sheathing his sword, "you heard the lady." He headed off into the night to follow where she lead the way back, and reluctantly his nervous crew trailed along behind.

--

**A/N:** Next chapter will be up much sooner! :)


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N:** Whew! Finished the chapter. This one I had to write in small increments because writing Tia Dalma hurts my head. She's in a tiny bit of the next chapter, and the last two of _Caribbean Carol_, and after that if it looks like I want to write anything with her in it, somebody please slap some sense into me! ;)

--

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

**--**

When Barbossa's handful of crew made it back to the longboat they'd come ashore in, the woman was sitting on the prow with one leg draped casually over the other as she watched them with glittering dark eyes.

Starkey, Roberts and Harlow came to a halt several yards away and looked at Hector uneasily, not sure they wanted to get any closer than they were. Hector glanced at Turk who shrugged. "Looks like she's goin' with us," he said quietly.

Not entirely sure he liked that idea, Hector was reluctant to say anything to irritate the woman he thought he'd been saving after what he'd seen happen to the man in black when he'd stepped into the water. He glanced at the woman sitting on the boat and watching him with a knowing look he didn't care for either. Finally he stepped closer to speak with her.

"Am I to understand ye'd be seekin' passage on me ship?" he asked at last.

She looked up at him from where she sat, appearing somewhat amused. "Yes."

"And exactly where is it ye'd be wantin' to go?" Hector asked, still wary of getting too close.

She stood gracefully and slowly closed the short distance between them while Hector fought the urge to back away and stood his ground. She came to a halt a foot away and reached out to toy with the medallion around his neck for a moment. "Wid yuh," she said softly.

"Me?" Hector asked, finding the woman's proximity disconcerting. "Why would ye say that?"

"I tink yuh a man of honor, Barbossa. You will take me away from dis place to a safer one, and som'dey I repay de favor," she said, watching where she let her delicate fingers trail from the metal at his throat to rest over his heart, and then she looked up into his eyes with a look almost of concern that Hector didn't care for.

"Well," he said, stepping past her, "our destination be Malagueña. Will that suit ye?"

She followed him with dark, intellegent eyes. "Yes."

"Right." Hector turned to face his four comrades where they were standing a fair distance away from the woman, wearing looks of various levels of distress at the fact that he'd agreed to take the accused witch on board the _Oxford._ "Well? What are yeh gawkin' at?" he demanded. "Time's a-wastin' an' that boat'll not row itself!"

The annoyance in Hector's voice was obvious to his companions, and they scrambled to launch the boat, continually shooting uneasy glances at the woman who sat quietly at the stern She watched them with faintly amused interest, but mostly focused on the young captain who stood at the prow with his back to her as he tried to make heads or tails of why this woman was making him feel so unsettled.

They made it back to the _Oxford_ in short order, and Hector climbed back aboard first. The rest of the crew gathered to get news of what had taken place ashore, but went silent at the sight of him holding out a hand to help the woman who suddenly appeared at the top of the ladder.

"Tank yuh," she said softly, her dark eyes meeting his for a long moment while she still held onto his hand. After a moment she let her fingers slowly slip past his to release his hand back to him, and she sauntered past him toward the captain's cabin in a way that made it unavoidable for him to notice her sumptuous curves.

"Cap'n", one of the crew, a wizened older pirate with long scraggly hair and few remaining teeth began in a hushed voice, "it's not right havin' a woman on board the ship. It's bad luck."

Hector glanced at where most of the crew seemed to be nodding in concurrence, including Starkey, Roberts and Harlow, and Hector shot Harlow a meaningful look, causing him to look a bit sheepish for agreeing. "'Tis not ideal, and that'd be fer certain, but she'll be with us only as far as Malagueña."

"But Cap'n," the same pirate protested.

"'Tis me final word on the matter," Hector replied, his irritation beginning to show. "Any of ye who question my decision are welcome to come forth and discuss it with me one on one." He made it a point to blatantly rest both hands on the pommel of his sword as he spoke, and scanned the group gathered on deck. No one said anything else, and Hector nodded once. "Good, now get yer mangy arses back to work!"

Turk fell in next to him as he followed where the woman had gone into his cabin. "Yer not goin' in there alone with her are yeh?"

"No. Yer comin' with me," Hector replied.

"Hector, I'm yer best friend, ain't I?" Turk asked bluntly.

"Of course," Hector replied as he reached for the door. "Exactly why yer not lettin' me go in there with 'er alone."

"I thought maybe yeh liked me better'n that,"Turk replied, looking concerned.

"Guess not," Hector quipped back as he opened the door and gestured for Turk to go first.

Turk gave him a dirty look and walked into the cabin ahead of him to find the woman walking around the room talking to herself in a bit of an undertone and running her fingers along the charts, spyglass and other items in the cabin as she did so, seemingly unaware of their entrance. "Somethin' wrong with 'er?" Turk whispered, frowning heavily.

"Dat all depends on yuh point of view," she answered, her back still toward the two pirates as she looked out the stern windows at the ocean, and then she turned around. "_What's_ wrong wid her also depends on yuh point of view," she said, offering them a wry smile.

She crossed the cabin to stand before the two and addressed Turk. "Will yuh let me speak wid Barbossa alone?"

Turk didn't really want to abandon Hector to be in the sole company of the witch and he hesitiated. "Well…"

"Tank yuh," she said with a gesture of dismissal. "I give him back to yuh in one piece, Theodore."

Taken aback and disconcerted by the fact that the dark skinned woman called him by name at all, nevermind his proper one, which very few pirates even knew, Turk decided that Hector was on his own. "I'll be right outside the door," he said, beating a hasty retreat. "Jus' give me a yell if yeh need me, Barbossa." He quickly shut the door, leaving Hector standing face to face with the woman alone, hoping there wasn't going to be a reason for him to need to yell.

"So," Hector began, after a long awkward moment, "yeh know me name well enough. Is there one that ye go by?"

"I go by menny names," she replied evenly.

"Is there one that I might call ye?" he asked, trying again.

"Yuh mey call me Tia Dalma," she replied, moving closer to him once again, "Hectah."

Hector's brow furrowed as she repeated his name. "And how is it that ye'd know jus' who I be, Tia Dalma?" he asked.

Her dark gaze bore into his for a long moment, and then she smiled to herself and looked away. "Dere be a price on ya head…set dere by de East Indiah Comp'ny," she said, indicating that she must have seen a wanted poster.

She reached up and trailed the back of her fingers along his cheek, and Hector fought the urge to flinch as her cool fingers made contact with his skin. It wasn't that he found her touch unpleasant in any way, nor did he find her wholly unattractive. Maybe he wouldn't call her beautiful, but exotic and lovely, he would. He did however, still have the image of the Bible being snatched below the waves at her behest still planted firmly in his mind's eye, and he gently pulled away and walked past her.

"Are ye hungry?" he asked her, walking away to put a little distance between himself and her again.

"Yes," was all she replied quietly.

When he turned to look back at her, he startled a bit at the fact that she'd come up behind him and was standing very close, watching him intently with those dark eyes. Once again her fingers reached to toy with the medallion at his throat, and the way she looked at him unsettled him again. He swallowed hard. "Yer not speakin' of food, are yeh?"

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "No," she said, and she took as step closer, causing him to take a step back. "Yuh wan ta know, what it is I hunger for, Barbossa?" She advanced another step and he retreated another, eyes never leaving hers.

"I suppose yer about to tell me regardless of whether I do or don't," he replied, taking a third step back as she moved closer once more.

"Yes." She smiled more broadly when Hector found himself backed against the wall with the next step backward.

Hector swallowed hard, and his hand unconciously went to his sword again. He thought he was fairly certain about where Tia Dalma was headed with the conversation, and in normal circumstances he wouldn't be opposed to complying with what she appeared to be suggesting, but after seeing what had happened on the beach, these could hardly be considered normal circumstances.

"What I wan'," she went on, pressing herself closer and reaching up to toy with a lock of his hair, "is freedom."

"I believe ye have that already, Mistress Tia," Hector replied, confused but relieved when she let go and stepped past him to stare out the windows at the sea beyond. "Do ye not?"

She gave him a brief smile that now appeared somewhat weary. "From de fate intended by de men on de beach, yes," she answered. "Hippocrits, dey be, binding me wid a spell dat go aginst all dey sey is holy. Yuh released me when yuh said 'I unbind yuh'."

Hector smiled at her uneasily. "A spell? Magic? Surely ye jest?"

The look she gave him said that she was far from trying to amuse him. "Tink yuh know so much, young Hectah?" she said. "Dere be tings in dis world yuh cannot know of, but still dey exist."

"Things?" Hector asked, not liking the way she'd said the word.

"Yes," she replied with a single nod. "Great tings, powerful tings…"

"Like that thing in the water?" Hector asked, the image of the large tentacle springing immediately to mind.

"Worse," she said, meeting his eyes with a dark look. "Dere be forces in play around yuh even so…foul magic, betrayal, treachery, deception…a curse so terrible…"

"A curse?" Hector asked skeptically in interruption, as he began to wonder if she were amusing herself at his expense. He snorted in disbelief. "Are yeh tryin' to scare me?" he asked with a dubious laugh at the solemn way that she spoke.

"Yuh should be afraid," she replied simply, meeting his gaze.

"A bit old I am fer such tales, Mistress Tia," Hector continued, dismissing what he considered nonsense.

"Far, far older than yuh I am," Tia Dalma went on, "and yet cursed I still became."

"Yer sayin' that like you expect me to believe you," Hector replied, folding his arms across his chest. He looked her over appraisingly, deciding that the probable ten years between their ages didn't qualify as _far, far older_.

"Somedey yuh believe me I tink," she said solemnly.

Hector let go a short bark of laughter. "'Tis not likely that ye'll convince me there be magic and curses, Tia Dalma. Mayhap you believe such things, but…"

"Give me ya hand," she commanded suddenly, interrupting him and looking annoyed as she held out her own hand expectantly.

Hector eyed her suspisciously. "Why?"

"Respect yuh should have for what others believe…for dat which yuh know nothing of. Give me ya hand, Barbossa," she ordered, "or are yuh afraid?"

"Of you?" Hector asked, looking her over and noting she was completely unarmed and half a foot shorter in stature, yet unable to dismiss the fact that she made him extremely uneasy after what had happened on the beach. He was still debating the answer to her question when she held out her hand again.

"Ya hand, young Hectah," she said again in little more than a whisper.

Deciding that he was not going to let her intimidate him, he uncrossed his arms and placed his hand withing her waitng one.

Tia Dalma examined it carefully, and then turned it over to gaze at his palm. "A lot yuh can tell, by de hands of man," she said softly.

"So, now ye'd be readin' my palm?" Hector asked, clearly still skeptical about her claims of the existence of anything supernatural.

Tia Dalma gave him a sly sideways smile and returned to where she was scrutinizing his hands. "Here," she said, pointing at his palm, "strength, courage, perserverence…" She looked at where he was rolling his eyes a little at her and then continued, tutting disappointedly to herself and then scolding him. "Arrogance, pride, selfishness….ah, here," she said moving across his hand, "smart, wicked, crafty, devious…"

"'Tis easy enough to make that up," Hector said to her as she still looked.

"De man yuh kill," she said suddenly, "an accident it was…but de woman, never was meant to be wid yuh." She met his puzzled gaze again, and Hector knew instantly that she spoke of Christine.

She shrugged. "Dis set yuh on de path yuh now follow."

Hector nodded, knowing it was the death of Stewart McCallum that served as a catalyst to get him labelled as a pirate, in addition to the fact that he had signed on with Morgan. While it was no secret in Port Royal that he had killed McCallum in a drunken rage, defending Christine, or so he thought at the time, he wondered how this woman knew of the story.

"Is not de wrong path for yuh, I tink," she said with a sly smile. "Much success yuh will have as a pirate, Hectah…but also much pain."

Hector frowned again, sincerely hoping that she meant the injuries he'd already been through, and then he caught himself buying into her nonsense and tried to draw back his hand.

"Stop," she said, hanging onto his hand still. "More pain is here…much more…ah, from de past…from home." She looked up at him with a knowing look of sympathy as she held onto his hand. "Dis is why yuh come to help me…dis pain…dis loss…I see fire, Hectah…." She broke off when she felt him tense. "I understand dis now."

"Are ye finished?" Hector asked, clearly discomforted by the memory she'd been alluding to, and making as if to remove his hand again.

"Wait," she ordered, hanging on. "Let me see…one more ting." She looked again for a moment and then smiled up at him. "Aiiee," she said playfully, "dere be a woman, Barbossa."

Hector pulled his hand slowly out of her grasp. "I prefer there be many women, thankee," he said, somewhat sarcastically in return.

"Not dat," she said, gesturing at him with a dismissive flick of her delicate hand. "She who yuh love…truly."

Hector laughed again at her, but there was no mirth in it. "A nice touch fer yer readin'," he said, "but the sea an' this ship be me only loves at present."

"Both will be replaced," she said with certainty. "Dis ship pale before de one dat capture yuh heart, and de sea? Leave her yuh would for dis woman."

"If ye say so," Hector replied, now becoming amused.

"I do…mark my words, Barbossa. Somedey yuh see," she said. "Somedey yuh believe ev'ry ting I say."

--

Hector saw too it that Tia Dalma was comfortable in his cabin for the evening, and joined Turk and Harlow out on deck.

"Yeh was in there a long time, Barbossa," Turk said.

Hector nodded, and fought the urge he had to shudder, after glancing over his shoulder at the cabin door. "Too long," he agreed.

"You had me 'n Turk tryin' to decide if you and she might be…" Harlow started.

"With her?" Hector asked, raising an eyebrow. He didn't quite manage to fight off the next shudder.

"That's what we figured…that she was showin' yeh her undyin' gratitude fer savin' 'er," Turk said, a bit of a gleam in his eye as he teased his captain.

"No thanks. Pretty, but…erm…well…creepy. I suspect we didn't do much savin' that she couldn't do herself," Hector replied, "and what she showed me had naught to do with _that_."

Turk sobered when he saw the look on Hector's face. "What happened in there, Barbossa? Yeh look like yeh saw a ghost."

"Nothin'," he replied, not wanting to let on that the discussion with Tia Dalma had left him feeling odd and unsettled.

"Nothing, my arse," Harlow said. "Spill it. What did she say to you?"

Hector debated how much he wanted to let on that the woman had given him cause to wonder if there was more to what she'd said than just a parlor trick, but at last decided to confide in his two best mates. "She read me palm," he said, " but some of the things she said…I dunno…she seemed pretty convinced."

"About what?" Harlow asked.

"The existence of magic, curses, powers," Hector said uncomfortably. "She's convinced of bein' under a curse."

Turk and Harlow exchanged a look.

"She told me of things about meself that few people know…about McCallum, Christine," Hector said.

"Those wouldn't be all that hard to know about," Harlow offered.

"She knew me mum died in a fire," Hector replied quietly, causing Harlow and Turk to share another uncomfortble look. They each knew that other than Cezar and Morgan, they were likely the only two people that knew what had happened to his mother.

"Yer right 'bout that bein' creepy," Turk said. "The sooner we're rid of 'er, the better."

--

At some point not long before dawn, Hector woke with a start and sat bolt upright in the hammock he'd made use of for the night, breathless from the nightmare he'd just been having. Like all dreams, the more he tried to remember what it had been about, the more it slipped away into the recesses of his mind, but the one image that he couldn't rid himself of, and that would haunt him for days after, was that of Tia Dalma standing before him.

'_Let me see ya hand'_, she'd said, holding hers out expectantly, exactly as she had in his cabin, but the difference between the conversation from the night before and the dream was that when Hector placed his hand in hers, it had been devoid of any flesh, and he'd stared, horrified at the skeletal fingers he'd placed against her own before crying out and yanking his arm away.

He was thankful that apparently he'd only yelled in his dream, and deciding that he was unlikely to get any more rest after being woken so abruptly, decided to rise. He pulled on his boots, and still unnerved, glanced once more at his hand, noting thankfully that it appeared to be just as normal as it ever had.

--

Next chapter we pick up the action again as Hector and the lads attempt to steal a ship from the EITC in Malagueña!


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter Thirty Two**

**--**

No one was happier when land came into view than Barbossa, who was anxious to part with his mysterious passenger and get on with the business of acquiring himself a ship. He stood on the quarterdeck, scrutinizing the harbor of Malagueña, where several ships were being loaded and unloaded, all with cargo that was the property of the East India Trading Company.

Hector snorted in derision at the amount of activity in the bay, disliking the fact that all of it meant profit of some sort or another for the EITC and Charles Beckett. Supposedly much of the operations in this particular port were under the surpervision of his younger brother, Cutler, who had been climbing ranks within the company ruthlessly even without his brother's help.

He was still scanning the layout of the bay when Turk joined him at the rail.

"Fine mornin' fer stealin' a ship, ain't it?" Turk ask brightly.

"That may be true, but more importantly, is there a fine ship fer stealin' this mornin'?" Hector asked without lowering the glass. "Ah, there. See what ye make of that." He handed the spyglass to Turk and indicated a pocket of harbor that was nearly obscured from view by their current location.

"That her?" Turk asked, looking over the smart looking frigate that was nearly finished with repairs and re-fitting.

"Aye, the _Arabesque_, is what Morgan said she's called," Hector replied from where he stood still scrutinizing the harbor. "I reckon 'tis easy enough to get into the harbor...their defenses are meant to ward off ships and not men."

"So, we're plannin' on takin' 'er tonight, and sailin' 'er out with half the crew?" Turk asked, confirming the plan.

Hector nodded. "We'll drop off our...erm..._passenger_ and check the lay of things so we'll be ready. I want this all done tonight. They'll likely become suspicious if the _Oxford_ stays in the harbor without business fer more'n a day or so."

"Yuh will not steal dat ship," Tia Dalma said suddenly, walking up behind the two pirates with a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Hector scowled at her. "Thankee fer yer vote of confidence, Mistress Tia, but me lads here are all seasoned veterans of commandeerin' vessels, and if there be any who could manage it, it be them."

Tia Dalma's smile broadened as she came to stand closer to Hector. "I did not sey yuh _couldn't_ steal dat ship, Barbossa, I sey yuh _won't_ steal dat ship."

Hector smirked and folded his arms across his chest. "And jus' what do ye think we be doin' out here at Malagueña in the first place, lass?"

"Yuh come to steal a ship," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"So, tell me...I would sail out here to steal a ship and not do it? Why?" he asked, sharing a look with an amused Turk.

Still Tia Dalma smiled, and she spoke back as if she were explaining something complicated to a small child. "A ship yuh will steal, but not dat one, _Captain_," she said, using the same sarcasm as she said _captain_ as he had when he'd called her _lass_.

"I suppose yer suggestin' I..." Hector began, but was cut off by the woman before him raising her hand in a silencing gesture.

"I suggest no'ting, Barbossa," she said, a knowing look in her eyes. "I only tell yuh what will happen."

"Fine." Hector turned away, tiring of her nonesense, and after sharing a look with Turk that clearly said they each thought she was a little crazy, he gave the orders for the _Oxford_ to make port.

--

Barbossa stood on the docks, relieved to be parting company with Tia Dalma at last. He spoke with her while Turk, Harlow, Starkey, and Roberts waited off to one side, looking over the bustling little port and town.

"Is there aught ye need, Mistress Tia?" he asked, anxious to make it easy for her to make her way and be gone. "Gold? Food?"

She smiled at him. "All I need I have right here," she said, tapping her head with one slender finger. "Yuh also, I tink."

"Well, then I wish ye well," Hector said, starting to turn away.

"Not so fast, Barbossa," she said in an amused way, watching him as he stopped and turned slowly back toward her. She sauntered across the few feet separating them and reached up an laid a hand on his cheek. "Tank yuh," she said solemnly.

"Ye'd be most welcome," Hector replied.

"Som'dey I pey yuh back, Barbossa," she whispered, letting her hand travel to the serpent medallion around his neck and speaking some word in a language that he didn't understand. "T'ree times, dis give yuh luck…from yuh father, from de naga, and from de mistress of de sea. I find yuh now, when yuh need me." She said nothing else, but reached up and kissed his cheek and then turned without a word and was gone.

"Yeh comin' or not, Barbossa?" Turk called to Hector, where he was pondering what she'd said before she left.

"Aye," he said, finally turning his attention to the task at hand. "Let's split up. Turk and Harlow will come with me to see the ship. Roberts, you and Starkey get the lay of the town. I'll be needin' to get a feel fer their manpower here."

The group split up as decided, and Hector, Turk and Harlow made their way toward the far side of the harbor to get a better look at the _Arabesque._ They could see her slowly come into view as they casually made their way around the harbor, nearing the inlet where the ship was being readied to return to sea.

"She's a fine looking ship, Hector," Harlow said from where they had stopped to get a feel for what sort of protection might be around for the ship. "I'd like to get a look at her up close."

Hector clapped him on the shoulder. "Ye'll get to see her plenty close up soon enough, Master Harlow," he said quietly. "Appears as though they'd be more concerned about someone stealin' the cargo than the ship…only a handful of guards on board."

"Yeah, well it's not everyday that some has the stones to waltz into their town and take a whole bloody ship, now is it?" Turk laughed.

"Are ye sayin' we have the stones to do it?" Hector asked, amused.

Turk smiled back. "Maybe not Harlow, here, but me 'n you? Aye, we've the right equipment fer the job."

Harlow frowned as he followed where they'd headed off again. "What's wrong with my equipment?" he asked, clearly unhappy about Turk's teasing implications.

"That be a question ye'd best save fer the ladies, Thomas," Hector said wryly.

"When he can find one," Turk said in a whisper that was still loud enough for Harlow to hear.

"You two are not funny at all," Harlow complained. "Just because..." He never finished what he was saying as he was interrupted by Hector stopping dead in his tracks.

"Blast and bugger me!" Barbossa swore under his breath. Turk and Harlow each looked at him in a puzzled way and then followed his line of sight.

"Oh, shit," Harlow swore softly.

"Bloody, fuckin' hell," Turk added, standing next to the two others, and then he shared another look with Harlow while Hector continued to stare. "Yeh see that, Thomas?" Turk asked, indicating where Barbossa had barely managed to keep his mouth closed. "That my friend, is the look of love at first sight."

Harlow sighed heavily. "I was afraid that you'd say that," he replied.

"Blasted witch was right." A sly smile started to spread it's way across Hector's face, and Turk could tell by looking at him just what he was thinking. His gaze had travelled past the ship they'd been intending to commandeer and fallen on the one beyond her which was currently having a number of cannons hoisted aboard.

"And that, Thomas," Turk said, indicating where Barbossa was obviously lost deep in thought at the moment, "is the look of a man who is about to _not_ steal the _Arabesque_."

Harlow frowned. "I was afraid that you'd say that too."

"Come on," Hector said, motining them to follow, "we need to get a closer look at the _Arabesque_."

Turk looked puzzled. "By the look on yer face, Barbossa, I thought yeh to be thinkin' of stealin' that beauty over there."

"I'm not thinkin' about stealin' her, I'm plannin' on stealin' her," Barbossa replied, even as they closed in on the first ship.

"Then why is it we're getting' a closer look at..."

"Our diversion?" Hector asked, giving Turk a wicked grin.

Understanding just what Hector meant, Turk grinned back. "Get off it, Barbossa! Even you don't have the jewels fer that!"

Hector smirked. "Oh, but I think I do, Master Turk."

Harlow looked from one to the other and shook his head. "We're blowing her up...aren't we?" he asked, fretting and already knowing the answer.

"Aye," Barbossa replied, "and by the time they deal with what's left of the frigate, that fine lady there will be sailin' along sweetly under me own hands."

--

The three pirates had managed to scout out the area surrounding the _Arabesque_, and made note of the fact that when the guards on her changed, it was only a pair of marines that once again took up the post. They'd gone on ahead across the small cove, and hiding crouched together behind a ramshackle old fishing hut, now scouted out the second ship as what appeared to be the last two canons were being loaded in place.

Harlow let out a low whistle. "She's a monster," he said in an appreciative manner. "All that firepower...fine lines...sleek hull. Damn, I'll be she's fast, Barbossa!"

Hector nodded in agreement, looking over the lay of the harbor around the ship they were discussing.

"Three dozen guns, fully rigged, and by the looks of 'er," Turk said, "this might be 'er maiden voyage."

"Aye," Hector said with obvious longing in his voice as he took in the gleaming wood of her hull, which shone so brightly it looked nearly golden in the bright Caribbean sun. "She's a lovely thing to look upon, that be true," he said admiringly, "but by the looks of her, I'll also wager her name suits her well enough."

"We better find the others and get back to the _Oxford_," Turk said, tugging on Hector's sleeve.

Barbossa followed the other two, but not before glancing once more at the vessel he was about to claim for himself. "Until tonight, M'lady," he murmured softly, smiling as he walked away from the ship that bore across her transom the name of _Wicked Wench_.

--

After the rendezvous with Starkey and Roberts, the five companions holed up in a shadowy corner of one of the local taverns to plan their strategy quietly over a couple of pints.

Once Barbossa had explained the new plan to the others, Starkey shook his head, clearly displeased about what his captain now had in mind.

"I don't like it at all," he fretted. "It's risky."

"Starkey, what is is that yeh do fer a livin'?" Turk asked, while Hector igored Starkey's worried comments and continued to plan the night's activities in his head.

Starkey frowned. "I'm a pirate..."

"So, quit yer bellyaching about things bein' risky," Turk said, raising his own mug and gesturing with it. "Yeh're startin' to sound like Harlow."

Harlow shot Turk a dirty look and then spoke up. "He's right, you know. Morgan said to slip in and out of Malagueña as quickly and as quietly as possible..."

"We'll be quick," Hector replied pointedly.

"But Morgan said to try not to draw attention to ourselves," Starkey added, reinforcing what Harlow had said.

"I don't plan to draw attention to us," Barbossa replied, grinning. "Their attention is likely to be focused elsewhere if all goes well."

"And if it doesn't?" Harlow asked.

Hector shrugged and took a pull from his mug. "Yeh need to stop frettin' so much, Thomas.

"Well, someone has to point these things out," Harlow retorted. "You need to have a backup plan in place, Hector."

"I do."

"What is it?" Harlow asked.

"We hand you over and say we caught you trying to steal the ship." Hector smiled wickedly. "Happy now?"

Harlow frowned. "Very," he said sarcastically.

--

Well after the patrons of the local taverns had made their inebriated ways to their homes or their ships, the crew of the _Oxford_ had split into two; one half staying with the _Oxford_ herself, under the command of Roberts, and the other half followed Barbossa, ducking furtively from shadow to shadow near the docks one after another.

All of them pressed back against the building they were hiding near and held their breath as a pair of marines on patrol passed by and disappeared somewhere into the night.

"Ready?" Hector asked Turk in a hushed voice.

"Aye," Turk said back, clapping Barbossa once on the shoulder and then heading off toward the _Arabesque_, singing loudly and weaving his way along as if drunk.

"_Me mother's a wench, me father's a sailor_," he sang out, sniggering a little as he wove his way toward the ship, surreptitiously keeping a close eye on the two guards on board.

"_A fearless son of the sea!_" he continued off-key.

"You there!" one of the two guards called down. "Stand back from the ship!"

Turk blinked up at the marine pointing a rifle at him. "Wha? This ship?" he asked, seeming slightly confused.

"Yes, this ship. Please back away and go about your business," the marine replied, now joined by his companion at the rail.

"I am goin' about me business," Turk insisted blearily, trying to buy a little more distraction time for the rest of his group. He could see them slinking behind the ship toward the gangplank out of the corner of his eye from where he was.

"Move it along, there!" the second marine ordered.

"Jus' as soon as I finish me business," Turk replied, making a great show of pretending to prepare to relieve himself nearby on the dock.

"Stop that!" the second marine called down. "Clear off that dock this instant."

Turk looked back up. "Right now?"

"Yes, at once!" The first marine instructed him tersely. "This area is off limits!"

"I really don't think I want to," Turk added.

Both marines point their rifles at him. "You will leave this area at once, or you will be arrested immediately."

Turk laughed. "I doubt it," he said, sounding completely sober, and before either marine could say anything in return, he heard the muffled double thud of two bodies hitting the deck. Quickly he trotted around the far side of the ship to join his companions as they were dragging the two unconscious marines off the doomed ship.

"Nice work acting like a complete arse," Hector commented to Turk.

"Who said he was acting?" Harlow commented wryly, eliciting a dirty look from Turk.

"You're sure you can handle this?" Hector asked Turk, as he prepared to leave the ship with the others.

"Piece o' cake," Turk replied. "Done this a million times."

"You have?" Hector asked him.

"Why do yeh think I was hidin' out in Morocco when we met?" Turk asked wryly.

Hector grinned back. "Make it quick, but make sure you give us plenty of leeway."

"Aye, Cap'n," Turk replied smartly, and he headed below decks to find the powder magazine while the rest accompanied Hector off the ship and on toward the _Wicked Wench._

By the time the dozen pirates had managed to slip through the darkness and take up position near the dilapidated fishing hut, they could see that similar to the _Arabesque_, there were only two or three marines on board their intended target. It took Turk a fair bit longer than Hector had anticipated it taking him to sabotage the _Arabesque_, and he was just getting antsy enough to consider sending someone to check on him when Turk finally made it to where they were hiding.

"Took you long enough," Barbossa growled.

"Yeh can't rush a professional job like that," Turk replied smoothly. "I'm nothin' if not thorough."

Hector rolled his eyes a little at Turk and then instructed the others to be ready. "Ye all know yer positions," he said. "As soon as the ship blows, the _Oxford_ will make sail, leavin' us stranded, so we have to get this right."

"Thirty seconds or so, Barbossa," Turk said, knowing roughly how long it would take the powder trail he left to burn down.

"Get ready," Hector ordered, drawing his sword with his right hand and pistol in his left as the others also drew weapons. They all crouched together in the dark, ready to spring upon the _Wench_ at any second.

Ten seconds ticked by, then twenty...then thirty...then fifty. A full minute went by, and Hector glanced once questioningly at Turk, who shrugged. Ninety seconds passed, and Hector was just about to berate Turk for screwing up their plans, when the night around them lit up with one explosion after another.

The _Arabesque_ self-destructed in spectacular form, showering chunks of wood and canvas and metal across the inner harbor, and then the harbormaster's hut exploded right behind it.

Barbossa jumped to his feet and ran toward the gangplank of the _Wench_, his twelve companions hot on his heels. They met the three shocked marines, who were running to investigate the explosion, halfway down the gangplank, and soon three red coated bodies were floating alongside the dock.

The group spread across the deck with urgent efficiency as Barbossa sprinted for the helm. "Drop that gangplank!" he ordered.

"Cut the bloody mooring lines!" he shouted. "Weigh the starboard anchor, and haul on that main course!"

"Get yer arses up those nets, yeh slaggard lollygaggers!" he cried cheerfully. "We've not got all night, now move!"

Quickly the _Wench_ was made ready, and when the first sails dropped open, Barbossa grabbed the wheel to guide her out of the harbor as she slowly began to move.

Another explosion ripped open the night sky as a small warehouse near the dock and the demolished harbormaster's hut was blown into oblivion, and many voices could be heard shouting and yelling as the marines on their way to the harbor were forced to take cover from another explosion.

The mizzen course dropped open, and as the ship began to slowly gather momentum, Hector smiled to himself at the sight of the troops he watched diving to the ground, even as a second warehouse blew itself to bits, showering the entire area around the _Wench_ with large chunks of burning wooden shrapnel.

"How many bloody explosions did ye set?" he called down to the deck, where Turk was orchestrating the crew.

"Plenty!" Turk called back over his shoulder cheerfully, even as another small building spewed fire into the night, and half of the dock collapsed in flames into the harbor.

Topsails fell open, and the _Wench_ cleared the inner harbor, still gathering momentum as explosions continued from gunpowder that had evidently been stored in the latest warehouse.

Barbossa could see that the _Oxford_ had gotten a good head start from where they were heading out to open sea. Not that it mattered by that point; by the time any marines could even get past the devastation that Turk had wraught in the harbor, both ships would be long gone and all hope of catching them would be eliminated.

The topgallants began to unfurl, and the ship under his hands began to gather even more speed. It soon became apparent to Barbossa that Harlow had been right, and the _Wicked Wench_ was indeed very fast. It didn't take them long, as the harbor of Malagueña was left in firey devastation, to catch the _Oxford_, and the two ships sailed side by side under the moon on their way back to Port Royal, while Barbossa had no notion of how much he would go through as captain of each in the years to come.

--

**A/N:** It occurred to me that the _Wicked Wench_ needed a bit more history before Jack Sparrow sails her for Cutler Beckett and the EITC, so who better to share some of that history with her? It gives Barbossa more of a reason to be obsessed with the _Black Pearl_ later on in my book. ;)


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

**--**

"You _what_?"

Morgan's voice was not loud, but the storm that rose up behind the dark eyes as he spoke nearly made Hector take a step back from where he stood on the other side of the desk in Morgan's study.

"We..." he began in reply.

"Do you not know the meaning of _subtle_, Barbossa?" Morgan demanded. "I told you the location of a perfectly good ship that you would havebeen able to easily and quietly obtain without anyone having been the wiser as to where she'd gone, but you had to go and make a bloody mess of things!"

"Cap'n, I..." Hector tried again.

"Do you know what I'm going to have to endure from Charles Beckett now?" Morgan said. "You know, I'm surprised that he hasn't made it here yet."

"He won't know yet," Hector replied. "'Tis fer certain we made better time than any other ship left afloat in Malagueña."

Morgan raised an eyebrow. "Any ship left _afloat_?" he repeated, clearly looking for an explanation.

Hector risked an uneasy smile. "Aye, it seems as if Turk were right thorough in settin' up his…erm…diversions. When the _Arabesque_ went up, so did the _Sea Nymph_ beside her."

"And the sloop on her other side," Barbossa added, preventing Morgan from saying what he was about to.

"And a handfull of skiffs and two dinghysin the harbor as well," he said, again interrupting Morgan.

Morgan's eyes narrowed in irritation. "Anything else?" he asked caustically.

Hector muttered something he didn't quite catch.

"Speak up, Barbossa," he snapped.

Hector sighed reluctantly. "Harbomaster's hut, two warehouses, the dock and a navy munitions store..."

"A church, three houses, half the town square...oh, and a donkey cart,"Hector added, meeting Morgan's gaze steadily.

"Without the donkey, I hope?" Morgan asked, and Barbossa suddenly realized the older pirate was trying not to smile.

"No, sir. No donkey." Hector found himself trying not to smile himself.

"Did anyone see you?" Morgan asked, apparently letting go of his anger by that point.

"No, sir," Hector replied, "they knew probably that there be a dozen of us and that another ship was involved, but as fer seein' us? Not with the diversion keepin' 'em busy."

"I see," said Morgan. "I'm assuming that if you were daring and clever enough to pull that little stunt off, that you were smart enough not to sail your new ship straight into Port Royal harbor?"

"Aye, she be at anchor a few miles west…near the cove with the twin trees on the point," Barbossa replied.

"And my _Oxford_ is undamaged?" Morgan said, standing and placing his elegant plumed had on his head.

"Aye, I took good care of her as always," Barbossareplied, sounding a little defensive.

"Good. Well, let us go," Morgan said, heading for the door.

"Go?" Hector asked, standing and following out of the study.

"To see this ship of yours, Mr. Barbossa," Morgan replied with a wry smile.

"_Cap'n_," Hector replied, causing Morgan to give him a questioning look as they walked. "'Twould be Cap'n Barbossa now, aye?"

Morgan clapped him affectionately on the shoulder. "Aye, so it would, my friend."

--

Morgan strode purposefully onto the deck of the _Oxford_, barking orders at the crew, who had just made it home, to weigh anchor and set sail due west along the coastline. He knew the trip would short – a nuisance more than anything, but he wanted to be sure to get a good look a the ship that had caused his young captain to veer off a set course and change plans on the fly.

Turk and Harlow looked concerned at the expression Morgan wore, but Hector merely shrugged and followed Morgan to the quarterdeck as they got underway.

Morgan leaned both hands on the rail, watching the crew cast off the mooring lines they'd so recently secured, and contemplated what had happened. True, Charles Beckett would be on his doorstep the moment he found out that pirates had taken the ship and devastated Malagueña, assuming (rightly) that some of his men had been responsible, but he already had a plan in mind to make Barbossa and his crew scarce, along with his newly acquired vessel.

He smiled to himself about the game this often became; a very serious and deadly game at times, but a game which he was still enjoying and winning, nonetheless. Morgan was savvy enough to know that there would be a point, in the not too distant future, in which the tide would turn and his position and influence would no longer be enough to help him hide his other activities in the Caribbean, but he also planned to be quit of Jamaica well ahead of when anyone would be able to pin responsibility for anything remotely illegal on him.

As for younger pirates like Barbossa and his new crew? It would be a different world in which they sailed in the not too distant future, what with men like Charles Beckett and companies like the East India Trading Company gaining power and influence by the day in the Empire.

Not much later, the _Oxford_ rounded the near point of the western cove, and there, at anchor not far off the distant side of the calm little harbor, near the pair of trees that had always grown side by side in that spot, sat Barbossa's shining golden ship.

The younger man was watching him expectantly, but whatever Morgan thought he kept to himself behind a closed mouth and a closed expression. He still said nothing when gangplanks were set in place, and he crossed agilely to the deck of the new acquisition, Barbossa hot on his heels.

Hector followed Morgan as he paced along the deck, scrutinizing the ship's masts and rigging, her ornamentation and armamentation, and at last he could contain himself no longer.

"So, what be yer thoughts, Cap'n?" Barbossa asked, flanking the older pirate as he made his way to the great ship's wheel.

"Not half bad," Morgan said with a shrug.

"Not half bad!" Hector exclaimed. "Not half bad! Cap'n, this be the finest ship in the Caribbean if I'd not be mistaken!"

"I suppose," Morgan said nonchalantly.

Hector stared at him for a long moment, confused and irritated that Morgan hadn't been impressed with his hard won prize, but then at last he caught the hint of wicked mirth in Morgan's look. Barbossa rolled his eyes. "Ye had me thinkin' ye didn't care fer me ship, Morgan," he said, daring to call his captain of several years now by name for the first time.

If it concerned Morgan at all he didn't show it, and a wry smile began tugging at the corner of his mouth. "This ship is one of the finest I have seen, Barbossa, in the Caribbean or otherwise." He smiled to himself when he saw how pleased the younger man looked at his comment. "What's your new lady's name?"

"Ah," Hector said, beaming once he saw that Morgan was impressed, "she be called the _Wicked Wench_, sir."

"I'll wager that's an accurate name for her, judging by the way she's put together," Morgan replied, running his hand appreciatively along the rail. "She's a beauty, alright, but she was built for power and speed, and for transporting a lot of cargo."

"Or a lot of swag," Hector replied, a smirk crossing his face.

--

Morgan wisely suggested to Barbossa that he and the _Wicked Wench's_ crew make themselves scarce, as it would likely be less than a day before some sort of word got to Charles Beckett and also to the fort. Although his crew had been of a mind to celebrate their new acquisition, Hector took Morgan's advice and decided to put to sea immediately, after giving the crew of the _Oxford_ the choice of remaining with her, or joining him on board the _Wench_.

Of course Turk and Harlow chose to go with Barbossa, as did Starkey, Roberts and a handful of others, rounding out the _Wench's _crew to a comfortable number for sailing her. However, Hector knew that if he were going to be able to accomplish any more than managing her sails and navigation, he was going to need to recruit more men, and at Morgan's suggestion, he charted a course for Tortuga, where he'd likely find willing members of the Brethern of the Coast.

Beyond that, Morgan's advice had been to make himself scarce near Port Royal for several months, to give time for the uproar about the devastation of Malagueña to simmer down.

--

Tortuga.

Barbossa contemplated the rowdy and decadent little town from the helm of the _Wench_, navigating her with ease for the first time into the tricky inner harbor. How many times his ship would negotiate those waters in the future, he had no idea as he barked orders at his crew to reef sail and be ready to make port.

By the time he'd donned his coat and strode down the gangplank, flanked by Turk and Harlow, he was in fine spirits, and the appreciative looks his ship was getting from some of the other seamen on the docks only buoyed his mood further. By the time they reached the crowded mainroom of the Faithful Bride, he had acquired a bit of a cocky, if not slightly uneven swagger, and he called for the closest barmaid to bring three pints to the table he quickly scouted out near an open window.

"Yeh'd be in a fine mood there, Barbossa," Turk said as they sat, taking a moment to assess the occupants of the tables around them.

"And why not?" Hector asked, settling himself into his seat and draping an arm casually over the back of his chair. "I'm with me two best mates, I've put a right sharp sting in Beckett's arse, and the wickedest wench in the Caribbean now sails sweetly under me own hands."

Harlow groaned and rolled his eyes. "I'd say that'll be true in about ten minutes," he said with a sigh, nodding his head to indicate the other two should follow his line of sight.

There, making her way determinedly across the room and running the gauntlet of randy pirates and expertly swatting away roaming hands, was Lilith Davenport.

"What's that woman doing in Tortuga?" Turk asked, taking his mug from the barmaid with a nod of thanks and taking a substantial draught. "I thought she had a good thing goin' in Port Royal?"

Lilith had noted that Hector and company had spotted her, and she smiled to herself as she closed the distance to their table.

"Well," Hector said slyly, "I know what she'll be doin' in Tortuga in about half an hour."

Turk punched him in the arm. "Randy li'l pirate, ain't yeh?"

Barbossa frowned at him and then laughed. "Who ye callin' little?" he asked with mock indignation. At just better than six feet tall he certainly was far from short, but Turk, who stood three or four inches taller easily, was not opposed to harassing his best friend. "Jus' because yer a great bloody ox doesn't mean that..."

An outburst from a woman nearby interrupted Hector's reply, and when the three pirates from the _Wench_ turned their attention to the group of Spanish pirates a few tables away, they saw that one of them had managed to grab Lilith and pull her unwillingly into his lap.

Hector calmly took a long swig from the mug in front of him, monitoring the situation as Lilith spat curses at the rough looking Spaniard and struggled to free herself from his grasp as he laughed at her. His hands were roaming a little too much for her liking, and she swatted them away and managed to land a resounding slap across the Spaniard's face.

Turk, Harlow and Hector all chuckled at seeing the dark pirate get slapped, as did the man's companions, but Hector instantly sobered once he saw the look that crossed the Spanish pirate's face, and he returned a stinging blow to Liliths' cheek, causing her indignant expression to instantly become a fearful one.

"Oh shit," Harlow said, downing a large part of his drink quickly to fortify himself when he saw the look that came across Hector's face.

"Oh, good," Turk said, calmly taking another swig of his own drink, "at least the evenin' won't be dull."

Hector stayed where he was, arm draped across the back of his chair, and fastened an unblinking stare on the Spaniard a few feet away that the man couldn't help but finally notice.

"Eh! What you think you looking at?" he demanded arrogantly, still hanging onto Lilith.

Hector took a pull at his mug before setting it back down and answering. "Tis my opinion that I be lookin' at a great filthy Spaniard," he said calmly.

"Oh shit," Harlow said, "here we go."

"C'mon, yeh need to have a bit of fun after all that work," Turk said, punching him playfully in the arm.

"Why don' you come here and say that, _pendejo_?" the Spaniard snarled, flinging Lilith aside and standing up.

"Sit down," Hector said, waiving at the pirate dismissively. "It's easier for everyone to see how ugly ye'd be when yeh stand up."

At that point the Spaniard actully smiled, but it was one that didn't reach his eyes as he stared back at Barbossa. "So_, hijo de puta_," he said, "you have _huevos_, no?"

Hector gave the darker pirate the most condescending look he could manage. "Is _that _what ye'd call them in yer country?" he asked, understanding the term that was close in translation to Portuguese. "Huh, leave it to the Spanish to pick something small and delicate as an egg. At least in Portugual they have _nuts_, and in England they have _stones_."

"Large stones," Turk added wryly, taking another pull at his mug.

The Spanish pirate regarded Hector through a narrowed gaze for a moment. "Sí, well this must be true…or you do not know who you are dealing with." He grabbed Lilith by the arm again, keeping her from heading for the table where Hector sat.

"Yer right, I don't," Hector replied, standing up at last.

The pirate handed Lilith off to one of his companions and took a step closer to Barbossa. "I am Ignacio De Saldanha, capitán of the _Trouvadore_, he said proudly, and the conversations that were already beginning to dwindle around the arguing pirates dropped off to near silence at the revelation of the Spaniard's name.

"I see," Hector said, doing his best to appear unimpressed, but perhaps not succeeding entirely. He knew De Saldanha by name and by reputation, and he was beginning to wonder if he should have just kept his mouth closed.

"_De Saldanha_!" Harlow hissed in a low whisper, scolding Barbossa. "You've insulted De Saldanha of all people?"

"Shut it," Turk admonished him, while Hector still spoke with the infamous Spaniard.

"And who are you?" De Saldanha asked, sauntering a few steps closer to Hector.

Hector sighed. "I'm the man ye'll be handin' that lady over to," he said evenly. "The name's Hector Barbossa...captain of the _Wicked Wench_."

De Saldanha smiled tolerantly and then looked around at the men at his table who were beginning to laugh. "I do not think I have heard of you, Barbossa," he said pleasantly, the look in his eyes anything but pleasant.

Hector was tempted for a moment to let the Spaniard know that he sailed with Morgan, but decided against it for some reason he couldn't fathom right off. "Aye, well ye have now," he replied, letting his hand rest on his sword, "and I'll thank ye to send the lady this way."

De Saldanha glanced at where Lilith was fuming and still in the grasp of one of his crew before looking back at Hector. "There are plenty of _putas _in this town, Barbossa. Go and find yourself another whore...this one is mine tonight."

"I don't think the lady would agree with that," Hector said, stepping forward to stand in front of De Saldanha. He smirked a little. "Besides, this one be more than yer delicate _huevos_ could handle."

The Spaniard frowned but held his ground. "So, you insult me again. I hope that you can back up your impudence, Barbossa."

"Ye speak as if that be a challenge," Hector replied, eyeing where the Spaniard had also gripped his sword. "I accept if that be the case."

De Saldanha quirked a dark eyebrow up and then shared a knowing grin with his men. "_Capitán _Barbossa would like to accept a challenge," he said, eliciting another round of laughter from them before turning back toward Hector. "A duel then, Barbossa...the woman stays with me if I win..."

"And she'll go with me if I win," Hector replied, giving Lilith a reassuring look.

An amused chuckle came from the Spaniard. "Such confidence, Barbossa! Perhaps we should up the stakes to something more...significant?"

"Such as?" Hector asked, wondering how much gold he and his two comrades had between them.

"That is a fine sword you carry," De Saldanha replied, nodding once at the weapon at Hector's hip. "It would make a lovely addition to my collection."

"Ye'll have to best me first," Hector replied.

"I intend to," De Saldanha said confidently, cracking his knuckles loudly in the silence that had fallen in the Faithful Bride. "It has been many, many years since I have lost a duel, Barbossa."

"Interesting," Hector said, "but I have yet to lose one."

De Saldanha laughed out loud. "So, I see I should worry about my sword then," he said with obvious amusement.

Hector shook his head and pointed at the other's hip. "Yer gun," he said simply, admiring the ornate and very expensive pistol.

"This?" De Saldanha asked, suddenly irritated. "This weapon belonged to my father, Barbossa. It has been in my family since it was crafted, many years ago."

Hector smiled. "'Twould look fine with me coat, aye, Turk?" he asked in a cocky manner.

"Aye, Cap'n," Turk said, standing to emphasize his great stature, "that it would." He then smacked Harlow in the shoulder, causing Hector's first mate to stand up abruptly if unhappily.

The Spaniard thought it over and grinned, and then drew off his coat. "Very well, the stakes will be the woman and the gun, against the woman and your sword. Shall we take this outside?"

Hector tossed his own coat on the chair he'd been sitting in and followed the Spaniard outside into the dusty street of Tortuga, a large crowd pouring out of the Faithful Bride to surround the two pirates about to duel.

Turk and Harlow stood at the ready should things go badly for Hector as De Saldanha drew his sword.

"Last chance, Barbossa," he said arrogantly, glancing once at where Lilith was watching the younger pirate with great concern.

Hector stood his ground, hand on his un-drawn blade and taking a deep breath to ready himself.

De Saldanha made the mistake of thinking Hector to be nervous and inexperienced, and with a mocking laugh, made the first strike at where he stood calmly.

The amusement on De Saldanha's face quickly faded when the younger pirate drew his blade and blocked the attack in one motion, leaving the spot he'd been standing in; quickly sidestepping for a blow of his own that came lightning fast and would have bit deep into the Spaniard's neck if the Spaniard had been any less of a swordsman. As it was, a large section of his long dark hair was lopped off along with the earring that hung from his ear as he barely managed to deflect the strike, and he quickly found himself off balance and on the defensive as Hector rained down a series of blows in rapid succession.

Hector, judging how well the slightly older pirate deflected his attack, knew that the Spaniard would not be easily defeated, and drew back a step instinctively as the other man regained his balance and went on the offensive again.

The repeated _clang _of the two blades sounded throughout the street, and it was only a moment or two before word had spread that Ignacio De Saldanha was about to make some poor soul pay for insulting him in the tavern, causing the crowd to swell as others came to witness the infamous Spanish captain in a duel.

De Saldanha feinted and then went for Hector's head, causing the _Wicked Wench's_ new captain to duck and then barely ward off the next blow as a collective cry went up from the crowd.

"Get the bastard, Barbossa!" Turk yelled as he and Harlow moved along to keep close to their friend as the duel moved slowly across the road.

The duel went on fiercely for several long moments, until both men were breathing hard and sweat began soaking through the shirts they wore. Panting after defending against a particularly ferocious onslaught from Barbossa, De Saldanha smiled at his opponent as the two stepped back from each other, warily catching their breath.

"Where did you learn to handle a blade, Barbossa?" he asked appreciatively.

"I was taught by Jedediah Gray hisself," Hector replied, knowing that his mentor's skill with a sword and close association with Morgan would make the name recognizable.

"My compliments to your teacher," the Spaniard said pleasantly, and then he charged Hector again, trying to catch him off his guard.

De Saldanha's renewed attack did not catch him by surprise, but it did throw Hector off balance, and if he hadn't drawn the dagger that hung at his hip to block the blow in time, he knew he'd be missing a chunk off his left arm. De Saldanha drew back for another blow while Barbossa was off balance, but Hector, knowing he needed to stay in close to his adversary yet unable to straighten up in time, settled for throwing the dagger at De Saldanha's feet and causing the Spaniard to backpedaled in order to avoid having his foot impaled.

Hector went on the offensive again, thinking to end the duel as the Spanish pirate sought to regain his own balance, but the experienced older swordsman managed a strike that grazed Hector's arm, tearing through his shirt and leaving a shallow thin line of blood welling up across the wound.

Barbossa ignored the wound and continued his attack, recalling that he should stay calm and stay in close. The crowd parted for the two combatants as Hector drove De Saldanha back another step and then another, realizing with greater certainty that the older man was tiring. Contenting himself with staying just aggressive enough to keep the other on the move, Hector bided his time until he was certain he saw just the right opportunity.

It came as the crowd shifted once more, now cheering as it looked like the young pirate captain was going to beat the famous captain of the _Trouvadore, _and desperate to save face, De Saldanha lunged recklessly at Hector.

He found himself neatly disarmed by Barbossa and tucked his smarting fingers under his armpit as Hector stepped in triumphantly and pressed De Saldanha up against the nearby wall with the blade of his sword against his throat.

Both men were panting when Hector spoke. "Do ye yield?" he asked, staring the Spaniard down.

De Saldanha nodded, and gestured to his men to release Lilith, who quickly ran to stand with Turk.

The Spaniard smiled at Barbossaas the younger man lowered his blade. "Truly, that was remarkable," he said, obviously impressed. "I will not forget the pirate who bested me after so many years without a defeat. You are a credit to your teacher, Barbossa."

"Thankee, Capitán De Saldanha," Hector said with a measure of respect for the skilled swordsman as he sheathed his sword and turned to head back to where Lilith, Turk and Harlow waited for him.

"Capitán Barbossa," De Saldanha called, looking down at the pistol in his belt and then drawing it out, "you forget something."

Hector turned in time to see the dark look that crossed the Spaniards' face as he cocked the trigger on the pistol. "My gun," he said, taking aim at Hector's chest and squeezing the trigger.

Hector caught his breath and flinched at the gunshot, expecting searing pain to rip into his chest, but after the space of a few heartbeats, during which his was obviously pounding quite hard, he looked up from his bloodless chest to see the gun toppling from De Saldanha's hand as the man sank to his knees, bleeding profusely from the hole that had appeared in his own chest.

He said nothing else before falling down dead, and when Hector's gaze snapped to where his companions stood, he saw the smoking pistol still in Harlow's hand.

"I thought you might need a little backup," Harlow said wryly, putting the pistol away as the crowd began dispersing and the Spanish crew fetched the remains of their captain.

One of them retrieved the De Saldanha's pistol and handed it to Hector. "This is yours," he said simply, and then left the street with his comrades and fallen captain.

Hector tucked it in his belt and went to stand in front of the other three. "I knew someday ye'd make yerself useful," he said, punching Harlow in the arm, but meeting his friend's eyes steadily.

"You're welcome," Harlow said, grinning ear to ear. "You owe me a drink I think."

"I owe ye more'n that," Hector said quietly, glancing at Lilith, who stepped forward and took the arm he offered, accompanying him with his shipmates back to the Faithful Bride.

--


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

--

Henry Morgan was sitting at the table that held the place of honor in the captain's cabin of the _Oxford_, dipping a quill in ink and scrawling a small notation on the parchment that sat before him, when a knock sounded at the door of the cabin.

"Come in," he called, finishing what he was writing before looking up to see Hawkeye Hartwell ducking through the door and closing it behind him.

"Ah, James," he said warmly, rising and greeting the other pirate, "have you brought friends with you?"

Hartwell nodded, indicating that he understood Morgan's question about whether or not he had other ships accompanying him back from Puerto Bello and Maracaibo. "I've brought four other captains with me, and nearly three hundred men," he replied.

"Excellent," Morgan replied, "and just in time. You brought back Thomas and Kent?"

"Aye, and McKendry and Avrill as you specified," Hartwell answered.

"Good, good," Morgan replied. He'd picked those particular captains and their ships because he knew that they all commanded the undying loyalty of their crews, and he theirs.

"Sit, my friend," Morgan said, gesturing at the chair across the table and re-seating himself. "Your trip went well, I trust?"

"Aye, as well as could be expected," Hartwell answered. "Came across a bit of news out of Malagueña on the way back...or what's left of it."

"Oh?" Morgan asked, saying nothing else to see what Hartwell would have for news before he let on that he knew of the happenings in the East India Trading Company port.

"Seems a few weeks back the town was nearly destroyed...by pirates," Hartwell said, watching Morgan's reaction carefully.

"By pirates?" Morgan asked. "Anyone we know, James?" He went back to finishing the line he'd been writing on the map.

"No one could say for sure, but of course, you must already know this since they blame you," Hartwell replied.

"Of course," Morgan said, glancing up briefly from what he was doing. "I was just curious as to what the latest version of events might be out there."

"The Company is in shambles out that way," Harwell went on. "Seems as though most of the ships in the harbor, their warehouses and their headquarters were either blown up or burned down as a result of the other explosions."

"Shame, that," Morgan said, doing his best to keep from smiling.

Hartwell didn't miss the subtle change in Morgan's tone after knowing him for so many years, and a rare smile started its way across his own face. "You know more than you've said, Henry," he spoke. "Did you order the town burned to make a point to Beckett?"

"Me? Burn the town? Good heavens, no, James," Morgan said, openly smiling. "You know that isn't my style. I prefer to keep a lower profile than that. It must have been someone who would mind the notoriety less than I would."

A deep frown creased Harwell's brow and he narrowed his remaining eye. "You sent Barbossa to do it, didn't you?"

"I did nothing of the sort, James," Morgan said, still amused despite the scowl that Hartwell wore. "I merely sent him to commandeer himself a ship...the _Arabesque,_ if I recall her name correctly."

Hartwell scrutinized Morgan more closely. "The _Arabesque_ was blown to bits in the harbor," he said, clearly unhappy at the thought that Morgan had decided to already provide Barbossa with his own ship in Morgan's fleet. "What ship did Barbossa end up with?"

Morgan waved him off. "I don't know...something...the _Windy Witch_ or some such," he replied absently.

Hartwell was on his feet in an instant. "_The Wicked Wench_?"

"Yes, yes, I suppose," Morgan said, still focusing on what he was doing.

"That's the ship the EITC brought in specifically for outrunning pirates...she's supposed to be the fastest thing this part of the Caribbean," Hartwell snarled.

"Oh, everyone says that about their ship, James," Morgan said, apparently unconcerned about Hartwell's outburst. "Sit down. It's about time Barbossa got his own ship and you know it."

Hartwell sat back down slowly, thinking things over carefully. He didn't like the situation and knew that Morgan had a lot more to do with what had happened than he let on. "You put him up to it," he accused at last.

"I merely gave him the suggestion as to where he could find an available ship like the _Arabesque_," Morgan began.

"Knowing full well that the EITC had brought in such a ship as the _Wicked Wench_, and wanting it for your own fleet," Hartwell said, piecing things together. "You knew Barbossa would never take that second rate ship once he spotted the _Wench_."

"Would you?" Morgan said, giving Hartwell a pointed look. "Heaven knows...were I bit younger of course, that I wouldn't."

"And you let him have it," Hartwell complained, not answering Morgan's question.

"Well, _someone_ needs to captain her," Morgan said firmly, and I assume that you've been happy with the _Centaur_?"

Hartwell said nothing but nodded. While he was irritated that Barbossa had acquired such a fine ship for himself, he knew he couldn't complain about having been given the _Centaur_, a ship second only to perhaps Morgan's _Oxford, _but now also the _Wicked Wench._

"Stop fretting over such trivial matters, James," Morgan said pleasantly, but watching Hartwell carefully. "I wish to meet with the four captains this evening. Will you send them to me?"

Hartwell stood, understanding he was being dismissed. "Aye, sir," he said, and he left the _Oxford_ much less happy than when he'd come aboard.

--

Hector lay propped up on one elbow on the rumpled sheets, watching Lilith brush out her ebony hair after she'd gotten herself dressed. She caught sight of him watching her in the mirror she sat before, and her reflection smiled back at him.

"You're awake," she said pleasantly, setting down the brush. "Good, you can buy me breakfast."

"I should think I deserve ye to fetch breakfast and bring it to me here," Hector said, patting the edge of the bed meaningfully. "I did save yer life after all."

"Oh, stop," she scolded him with a laugh. "You merely kept me from having to spend the evening with less pleasant company than yourself, and you cost me the fee I would have earned from De Saldanha."

"Ye mean the fee yeh would have gotten when ye sold whatever ye took from him while he slept," Hector replied wryly, reaching for her.

"Stop," she protested without much enthusiasm, playfully swatting his hand away.

"That be the first I've heard that word from ye," Hector said, ignoring her halfhearted protest and pulling her into the bed again.

"Stop," she said softly again, not resisting at all when he closed his mouth over hers in a deep lingering kiss. He left her breathless when he pulled away, and she scolded him softly. "This one will cost you," she said trying to sound serious.

"If ye say so," Hector replied, kissing her neck in a way that made her weak as he layed her back down.

"You're wrinkling my dress," she breathed, clearly looking as if she had things other than her dress on her mind.

"Well, we can't be havin' that," he said slyly, reaching to undo the buttons she'd finished fastening not all that long before...

--

Lilith's dress lay draped carefully over a chair as she snuggled in a contented way in Hector's arms, wishing that he wouldn't leave, like he always did, and head back out to sea. It was something that she expected of all the men she offered her time to, and she never gave it a second thought when most of them took their leave of her.

But Hector was different, and it bothered her a little that she felt such an attachment to the cocky young pirate who was dozing next to her. She glanced at where he was sleeping and brushed his tangled auburn hair from his face a little, shaking her head mentally at herself for doing so.

The notion of having become so fond of one of her many men seemed ridiculous when she thought about it, and this one in particular. There were many others who were better looking, wealthier and more influential, not to mention closer to her age, that she hadn't bothered to give a second thought to, but for some reason the charming young rogue that sought out her company periodically was on her mind more and more often as time went by.

He stirred a little at her tender touch, and she berated herself mentally for having ended up spending the morning between the sheets with him again. True, she hadn't suffered for it, with as much as he'd learned from her over the few years that she'd known him now, and she smiled again at the thought that she actually enjoyed her younger companion's attentions, when he chose to lavish them on her.

Lilith closed her eyes and thought back to the way he'd been kissing her, and then breathed her name repeatedly near her ear while they'd been tangled together in a passionate way. Her heart sped up at the thought of it, and she lied quickly to herself as she determined that it was only because of the physical aspect of things that had passed between them. She merely happened to enjoy his turns with her, and that was why she rarely charged him anymore.

She glanced once more at where he was sleeping, wondering how long it would be before he woke to the thought of the sea calling him away, and she quickly tried to suppress the notion that it would be any harder to watch him go than any of the others.

It shouldn't matter to her that he left. It shouldn't matter to her that he'd made the effort to defend her honor, such as it was, from that arrogant Spaniard, De Saldanha. She shouldn't think twice about the fact that he'd risked his own hide to see to it that she wasn't mistreated. True, with as well as she knew him, she realized that half of the reason he'd gone up against the Spanish pirate was the chance to show off and to prove himself, but she knew he'd also done it for her.

Litlith frowned, knowing that he had done it for her, but only because of the friendship they'd formed over the years, and not because he was in love with her. She pushed a little more of his long hair away from his face, and layed her head back down on his chest. Well, that was fine with her, because she was certainly not in love with Hector Barbossa.

She told herself that at least three more times before drifting off to sleep beside him at last.

--

Hector woke to an intermittent '_plinking_' sound and took a minute to realize where he was. Lilith was sound asleep beside him still, and judging by the light in the room over the _Faithful Bride_, it was nearly noon.

Another '_plink_' caught his attention, and looking toward the window, he soon saw another pebble hit the glass and smiled to himself. He climbed over Lilith carefully, wishing not to wake her, as it always made leaving her easier if she were still asleep. The look she often had in her eyes bothered him, and he couldn't quite figure why it was that he nearly always felt guilty.

Crossing to the window, he threw it open, just as another pebble missed the glass it had been intended for and skittered across the floor. Standing below the window were Turk and Harlow, each armed with another rock apiece.

"Enough, already," Hector called down in an exaggerated whisper. "Ye'll wake her up!"

"You ever getting your arse out of that bed, Barbossa?" Harlow called up, wearing a grin.

"I'm up!" Hector whispered back, glancing over his should once to make sure Lilith hadn't been woken.

"Good, then get yerself down here," Turk added, pelting Hector through the open window with the last pebble in his hand. "We have a crew to find, Barbossa, and we'll not get any further with you only lookin' between the sheets with that wench!"

"Shhhh!" Hector shushed them, cringing at how loud they were being. "I'll be right down!" He turned away from the window.

"Barbossa!" Turk yelled up, winning himself an amused look from Harlow, who knew that he'd likely woken Lilith up with that shout.

"What?" Hector snarled back down.

"Put some clothes on before yeh get down here," he grinned, indicating with a nod in Hector's direction that it was obvious from where he stood that he wasn't wearing any. "No one else wants to have to look at yer _huevos_."

Hector moved away from the window, leaving his two shipmates amused in the street below at Turk's comment, and began dressing quickly.

"You're leaving already?" Lilith asked sleepily from where she'd sat up, holding the sheet close to her.

"Aye," Hector replied, sitting down on the edge of the bed to quickly pull on his boots. "I'm off."

"How long will you be in Tortuga?" she asked as he stood and pulled on his coat.

Barbossa shrugged noncommittally. "And ye?"

Lilith smiled at him. "I'm here permanently now," she said. "Things were getting uncomfortable in Port Royal."

"Why would that be?" Hector asked, donning the weapons he'd left by the bed.

"It seems as though the EITC has taken an interest in my line of work," she said, wrapping the sheet about her and coming to stand next to him.

Hector raised an eyebrow at her words. "They ran you out of town?"

Lilith frowned. "In a manner of speaking. I don't wish to have my business _managed_ by Charles Beckett on the side," she said pointedly. "Evidently he's seeing a profit to be turned by encouraging the working women of Port Royal to work for him...like it or not."

Hector snarled wordlessly at the mention of Beckett's name.

"Speaking of Beckett," Lilith said, reaching out to smooth the lapel of Hector's fine coat, "you know he's upped your bounty again?"

"Good fer him," Hector growled, purposefully not asking what the reward stood at.

"Do you want to know?" she asked, snuggling in closer in an enticing way that might have changed his mind about leaving if he'd not just had her a short while before.

Hector shrugged again, but couldn't help the smirk that began appearing on his face.

"You're apparently worth four thousand guineas after the Malagueña incident," she said, obviously amused.

Hector frowned. "That's all?"

"I'd almost turn you in myself, for four thousand guineas," she said, teasing.

"Ye'd do no such thing," he admonished her, kissing her forehead briefly and heading for the door.

"It's a lot of money, Hector," she replied with a shrug, trying for reasons she didn't understand to make it seem like it she could bring herself to do such a thing. They both knew she never would.

If it's money yer after, just give me a few more months," he said, standing in the doorway. "I'll make sure the reward is well worth ye turning me in." He left her with the roguish grin that melted her heart and ensured the fact that she felt even more for the young pirate than she had the night before.

--

The small crew of the _Wicked Wench_ had little trouble finding men who expressed an interest in sailing aboard the ship captained by the young pirate who had handily defeated De Saldanha the night before.

Hector took some measure of pride in the fact that there were many furtive looks and hushed comments made in the _Faithful Bride_ later that night when he entered the tavern, flanked by Turk and Harlow. Evidently news had spread that he was someone to be reckoned with, and it pleased him that many of the pirates who shared the tavern were now edging away from their group.

"Yer drawing quite a group of admirers, Barbossa," Turk said, gesturing at where three barmaids were glancing their way and giggling, obviously being coy about who was going to serve their table.

Barbossa waived him off. "They be speculatin' about you, yeh bloody ox, and what else might accompany yer great height,"he said, laughing and receiving a broad grin back from Turk.

"There's enough to go aroun' fer the three of them, I reckon,"Turk boasted cheerfully, winking at the young women in the corner.

Two of them finally shoved a third forward, and she flashed a flirtacious smile at the three pirates as she made it to their table. "What'll it be, gents?" she asked.

"I'd say two blonds and a redhead," Turk said smoothly, causing the barmaid to giggle fetchingly once more.

"That sounds about right," Harlow chimed in pleasantly, smiling at the blond serving wench.

"That would be fer me," Turk said with a laugh, winking again at the now blushing girl. "Find yer own lovely lasses, Harlow."

Harlow rolled his eyes at his large companion. "I just might do that," he said indignantly.

"Well, go on then," Turk said, indicating the room around them. "Let's see what yeh land fer yerself, Thomas!"

Harlow frowned. "I'll find one when I'm good and ready," he snapped, not liking the pressure Turk was obviously placing on him. He glanced up when the serving wench returned to set three tankards down on the table in front of them and then made her way off to other tables.

"Why don't yeh try her?" Turk said, gesturing at the barmaid with his mug as he spoke to Harlow. "Unless yeh don't think she'd fancy a short little pirate like yerself?"

"I am not short," Harlow snarled back under his breath, as Barbossa chuckled. "Just because I'm not a great walking tree like you."

"Get over there, then," Turk encouraged him. "Saw 'er glance at yeh a couple of times while she was over here, mate. Prob'ly fancies yeh because yer the one as shot De Saldanha."

Harlow seemed to perk up at the thought. "Think so?" he asked, glancing with optimism at the comely barmaid.

"I'd bet on it," Turk said solemnly.

Harlow seemed to consider the situation for a moment, and then taking a draught from his mug to fortify himself, stood and crossed the room to where the serving girl was picking up more drinks at the bar.

"She never spared a single look at 'im," Hector said, as he watched his companion make his way between tables.

"I know," Turk said with a grin, and he downed the rest of Harlow's drink while he was gone and set the mug back on the table with a satisfied thump.


	35. Chapter 35

A/N: Niko, thanks so much for such a lovely review! I hope you enjoy where the story heads!

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

**--**

_"Get over there, then," Turk encouraged him. "Saw 'er glance at yeh a couple of times while she was over here, mate. Prob'ly fancies yeh because yer the one as shot De Saldanha."_

_Harlow seemed to perk up at the thought. "Think so?" he asked, glancing with optimism at the comely barmaid._

_"I'd bet on it," Turk said solemnly._

_Harlow seemed to consider the situation for a moment, and then taking a draught from his mug to fortify himself, stood and crossed the room to where the serving girl was picking up more drinks at the bar._

_"She never spared a single look at 'im," Hector said, as he watched his companion make his way between tables._

_"I know," Turk said with a grin, and he downed the rest of Harlow's drink while he was gone and set the mug back on the table with a satisfied thump._

_--_

The Faithful Bride was crowded and lively by the time Starkey and Roberts joined Barbossa and Turk at the table they'd claimed, and immediately they asked where Harlow had gone.

"He's tryin' to make time with that little blonde wench," Turk informed them, jerking his head over his shoulder at where Harlow was leaning causally against the bar, conversing with the woman.

"Who, Meredith?" Starkey asked, flagging down another serving girl and holding up two fingers to indicate they needed two more drinks for Roberts and himself. "I'm not sure that's such a brilliant idea, mate."

"Why's that?" Barbossa asked, glancing once at where Thomas had actually made the fetching waitress smile.

"She's taken," Starkey replied, taking a sip from the mug just placed in front of him. "Bloke named O'Reilly, I think."

"O'Reilly, as in '_Mad Dog O'Reilly_'?" Turk asked, recognizing the name of one of Tortuga's colorful inhabitants.

"Who's Mad Dog O'Reilly?" Barbossa asked, from where he had his feet propped up on Harlow's empty chair.

Starkey took another long pull from his mug before answering. "Blacksmith," he said, dragging the back of his arm across his mouth. "Bloke's supposed to have a raging temper and a very short fuse. They say he killed a man one night just 'cause he thought the poor bugger looked at him kinda funny."

Turk glanced at where the petite blonde was laughing again, and had touched Harlow's arm briefly. "Huh. She doesn't seem the type to go fer a fella like that."

"Well, that's the thing," Starkey explained. "It's not really her idea at all. I heard that Mad Dog has staked a claim on her, and she's stuck with him beating the bloody snot outta anyone who even looks at her twice."

No one at the table said anything else as Harlow arrived with another drink and a broad grin on his face. Barbossa dropped his feet off Harlow's chair, but before he could even sit down, Turk spoke up.

"Bloody hell, would yeh look at that," Turk said in awe. "She's callin' yeh back to the bar, mate."

Harlow glanced back at the bar in time to see Meredith smile at him, and he placed his drink on the table and went quickly back to where he thought she'd beckoned to him.

Turk gave Hector a devious smile, and then downed Harlow's drink again.

"He'll have somethin' to say about that," Barbossa said with a grin, tending to his own drink.

Turk waved him off. "Nah, his mind's on other things. I bet he don't even notice."

Sure enough, once Harlow arrived back at the table again, he looked a bit puzzled, but not yet suspicious. "Did I bring a drink back with me?"

Four heads shook in reply, and all four companions laughed as Harlow went once more to fetch another ale for himself.

While Harlow was yet again preoccupied with the comely blonde Meredith, two rugged and seasoned looking sailors approached the table.

"You Barbossa?" the shorter of the two asked.

"Aye," Hector replied disinterestedly, "and what of it?"

The shorter of the pair spoke up again. "We hear you're lookin' for a crew."

Barbossa shrugged. "I might be. Who wants to know?"

"Two of the best gunners this side of the Atlantic," the gruff-looking pirate answered. "Name's Cook, and this here's Durgin." He jerked his head at his taller companion. "We're wonderin' if a fresh young pirate like yourself could possibly be worth our time."

Turk, irritated by the snide comment, stood and drew himself up to his full height. "Well, I'll tell yeh. This here's Hector Barbossa, and he's more pirate at twenty-five than the two of yeh put together. He's the best swordsman this side of the Atlantic, commands the fastest ship this side of the Atlantic, and captains the toughest, fiercest, hardest working, hardest drinking lot of sons of bitches this side of the Atlantic."

He folded his arms across his broad chest. "My name's Turk, and either of yeh frilly little flowers have anythin' else to say that my captain don't like, I'll bloody well kick both yer arses back across the fuckin' _Atlantic_."

Durgin suddenly grinned down at Cook, who smile back. "Told ya they'd be worth our time."

Once they saw Turk's expression relax and the large bo'sun sat back down, the two newcomers pulled chairs up to the table. "We hear that the Company has four thousand guineas on your head," Cook said, addressing Hector.

"Get in line if ye'd be thinkin' of turnin' me in for the reward," Barbossa said back calmly, taking a casual sip from his tankard.

Cook shook his head. "Nah. See the thing of it is, we each have a special place in our hearts for those Becketts, seein' as how they impounded my ship for some bullshit reasons to confiscate my cargo and sell it for a profit themselves, and seein' as how Durgin's brother ended up dancin' a jig that needed no floor because of them…"

Durgin nodded grimly. "Aye, we're looking for a captain that carries the same love in his heart, and we heard you might be that man, Barbossa."

"Ye heard true," Barbossa said as Harlow arrived back at the table with another mug, only to have Barbossa take it from him, pass it to Durgin and indicate that Harlow should fetch another for Cook. "Me crew takes great pleasure in paying careful and particular attention to any ships flyin' the Company flag." Harlow scowled and stomped off to fetch another ale for Cook and one again for himself.

Hector went on to explain to Cook and Durgin what the terms would be for anyone who joined his crew, and mutually satisfied that sailing together seemed agreeable, it was decided that they would join the crew, bringing the number on board the _Wicked Wench_ to thirty-seven.

Harlow once again made it to the table, carrying two mugs of ale. Hector took one and slid it across to Cook, and then handed his own empty mug to Thomas and relieved him of the second full one, causing Harlow's mouth to drop open in indignant disbelief.

Knowing better than to protest in front of pirates that Hector was obviously interviewing, Harlow bit his tongue and trudged off to the bar again, muttering under his breath about first mates being unappreciated.

"We heard you offed DeSaldanha," Durgin said, making conversation with his new captain.

"Nay," Barbossa replied, despite the fact that he wore a sly grin. "Fer certain I bested him in the duel, but Harlow there, were the one as shot him when the bastard tried to shoot me."

When Harlow returned to the table once more, it was with a large serving tray laden with mugs of ale, and he placed it in the center, figuring to save himself another trip to the bar anytime soon.

Turk grinned up at him and swapped out an empty tankard for a full one. "Well, don't yeh just make a sweet little barmaid, Thomas," he said, laughing and causing Harlow to look extremely irritated. "Seein' yeh cartin' around all that ale almost makes me want to pinch yer arse."

Harlow smirked at him and finally took a full mug. "Seems to me mine isn't the only bloke's arse you can't keep your hands off, _Theodore_."

The grin Turk had been wearing disappeared immediately, and was replaced with in intimidating dark scowl. "Shut yer trap, Harlow," he snarled, while Thomas shared an amused look with Barbossa, Starkey and Roberts.

Hector laughed heartily before holding a hand up in a restraining gesture at Turk. "Easy, we'll be needin' our first mate soon enough, Master Turk," he said, still grinning. "'Tis well know yer preference be solidly in favor of fondlin' a _feminine_ backside when ye've had a bit too much to drink."

Pacified by Barbossa's comment, Turk settled for shooting Harlow on last dirty look and settled back in his chair with his mug.

Half an hour of conversation between the four companions and the two new recruits later, Harlow sheepishly volunteered to go and get the next round, and disappeared once more with an excuse to speak with Meredith.

Turk glanced at where he was once again making the fetching barmaid laugh as she stocked the empty tray with full mugs for Harlow. "I'll be buggered if Harlow doesn't wake up next to that sweet little thing by the time we finish out the week here," he said, but suddenly his expression sobered. "Oh, fuck."

"What, did she slap him or something?" Starkey asked, smirking over the top of his drink.

Turk shook his head, and nodded in the direction of where a large, sweaty and muscular man wearing a ferrier's leather apron still was storming across the room.

Barbossa glanced at the obviously outraged blacksmith, and then back at Turk. "Mad Dog?" he asked, receiving a confirmatory nod from Turk. "Ah, then we'd best see to Harlow." He made as if to stand, but Turk held up a staying hand.

"I'll handle it," Turk said with a grin, and he stood and headed for the bar, where Mad Dog had just grabbed Harlow by the shoulder and spun him around at the same time that Meredith let out a small cry of alarm.

Harlow, caught off guard and considerably smaller in stature than the irate O'Reilly, had time to do little else but cringe when the blacksmith drew back an enormous fist and swung at him. Knowing the impact was likely going to rearrange his face, he braced himself for the explosive pain and sickening crunch of his nose being smashed into his skull.

After three or four heartbeats the anticipated blow didn't arrive, and he opened one eye to see that Turk had grabbed O' Reilly's drawn back arm.

"I wouldn't," Turk snarled quietly at O'Reilly, who didn't let go of Harlow, but whipped his head around to face his own assailant. Broad and muscular from long hours working at the forge, O'Reilly still had to shift his gaze up an inch or so to meet Turk's stare.

Undaunted by Turk's height advantage and still irrationally infuriated by Harlow's apparent flirting with Meredith, Mad Dog let go of Harlow and dropped his shoulder, plowing backwards into Turk and knocking him off balance. Turk staggered back a step or two, still hanging onto O'Reilly's arm to keep his balance, but he managed to collide with a pirate passing behind the argument, causing him to spill rum all over himself.

Angered by the loss of his beverage and already heavily inebriated, the wet pirate charged Turk, forcing him to let go of Mad Dog while he blocked the punch thrown at him with his left hand, and then clobbered the rum-soaked pirate with his right, sending him sprawling into the midst of a card game at the closest table as Mad Dog grabbed Harlow once more.

A cry of outrage went up from the card playing pirates as cards and drinks were scattered, and the six of them stood abruptly; half of them grabbing up the pirate sprawled on their table and the other half charging Turk, who had grabbed O'Reilly by the shoulders.

Once again, Turk yanked Mad Dog off Harlow, pulling him back and tossing him aside and into the group of the three angry card players, sending Mad Dog and two of them to the floor, while the third jumped out of the way and collided with a passing barmaid, toppling her and her heavily laden tray of drinks onto another table.

More angry wet pirates jumped up from their table, and the fight that ensued quickly spread across the room like a tidal wave, sweeping up everyone and everything in its path.

Hector took an unhurried swig from his drink as a full mug of ale sailed past his head and slammed into the side of the face of a drunk at the next table, toppling him from his already precarious perch on his chair. A heavy ownerless boot suddenly crashed into the middle of the table, and Barbossa shared a mildly surprised look with Starkey, Roberts, Cook and Durgin.

"I suppose I ought to sort them out," he said casually, jerking his head in the direction of where Turk and now Harlow were trading blows in the scuffle with Mad Dog and the card playing pirates. He pushed his chair back from the table and stood, hand on his sword, just in time to have a very large, buxom wench stagger his way out of the mayhem.

Realizing that with her hefty weight she might knock him back onto the table, Hector threw out his hands to brace himself for the collision, inadvertently and unavoidably groping her very ample bosom in the process. Saved from sprawling in an undignified way on top of Hector, the large woman wasted no time in landing a resounding slap across his face, to the amusement of his companions.

Slightly inebriated himself, Hector was irritated enough to return the gesture, landing a light but stinging slap across a large rouged cheek, then earning himself a fierce right hook from the infuriated large woman.

Completely surprised that a woman had hit him with such ferocity, Hector didn't duck her second punch in time, and her meaty knuckles laden with rings collided once more with his jaw, staggering him into the nearby group of drunks who were already at odds and exchanging blows. The four of them were met by Barbossa's four crewmen, who had all sprung to their feet before anyone could land a punch on Hector.

He managed to duck out of the middle of that section of the widespread fight in time to see that Turk's three former card players were keeping him busy in an unsuccessful attempt to subdue the large pirate, who had one in a headlock, choking him mercilessly. A second he had grabbed by a fistful of hair, and was slamming his face into the top of the bar, while the third had an arm around his own neck in a futile bid to rescue his companions.

Harlow, already bruised and battered with a swelling eye, had managed to bloody Mad Dog's lip and knock out a tooth before the large blacksmith had managed to grab hold of him and bodily pick him up and slam him onto the bar.

Hector could see that Mad Dog had gone for a knife in his belt as he pinned Harlow by the throat, choking him while Meredith beat futilely at him with her fists. Knowing he'd never get though the sea of drunken combatants in time, he tore himself from the crowd around him, springing onto a chair and then a table nearby as he drew his sword. He ran, leaping across the next three tables and landing on the bar as O'Reilly's blade flashed toward Harlow's face. Sword met dagger an inch from Harlow's eyes, and Hector kicked Mad Dog in the face, causing him to stagger back and let go of Harlow.

"Thanks," Harlow croaked up at where Hector was standing over him, and he rolled off the bar and behind it as Mad Dog charged them again. He threw a bottle he had grabbed off the closest table at Hector, causing him to turn aside and take the blow on his shoulder, and Mad Dog grabbed an ankle and yanked before he could regain his balance, sending him crashing to the bar, the impact jarring his sword out of his hand.

Nearby, Turk, seeing his captain in serious trouble, roared and shrugged off the three pirates he was battling with a tremendous effort. He charged to where Hector was struggling to keep the dagger Mad Dog was shoving at him from cutting into his throat, grabbing up a chair along the way and swinging it fiercely at the blacksmith.

Large chunks of chair flew as the impact with O'Reilly's back shattered it, and he staggered, almost collapsing. Turk lunged for him as Hector scrambled out of the range of the dagger, but both gestures were unnecessary as Mad Dog finally was overcome with the bottle of rum smashed across his skull by Meredith.

"Thank yeh, love," Turk said, flashing a brief grin at her before being assailed once more by the three pirates he'd been battling a moment before. Hector threw himself off the bar to tackle the nearest one, and quickly the fight escalated further as the other three card players joined their comrades in the fight against Turk and Barbossa.

Another four of the of the cardplayers' shipmates, who were drinking in the Bride, joined in, and with a tremendous effort, six of them managed to subdue Turk, despite the fact that it took them several minutes. Hector, armed only with his fists, managed to bloody several of the remaining four, before being bodily dragged down and picked up.

Cursing and struggling wildly, Turk was still outnumbered enough by six rugged pirates that he was unable to get free, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his back in the dust outside the door of the Bride, trying to catch his breath where they'd thrown him.

Thirty seconds later, he heard the shout of '_three_!' and Barbossa crashed through the window, landing next to him in the street amid a shower of wood and glass fragments after being heaved out of the bar himself.

Both lay there in the street for a long moment, trying to catch their breath while the sounds of shouting and breaking glass continued inside.

Turk rolled his head to look at Hector next to him, who was lying there with his eyes closed. "Yeh alright?"

"Aye," came the quiet reply, and then Hector began laughing. "You?" he managed.

"Aye, I reckon," Turk said, beginning to chuckle in the dust. "Yeh think we should go back in after Harlow?"

Hector shook his head. "Harlow snuck out the back with Meredith right after she dropped O'Reilly with that bottle. I reckon we shouldn't expect him until mornin'."

Turk grinned and climbed to his feet with a groan and then scrutinized Hector's face as he offered his hand down to pull his captain to his feet. "Who the fuck bloodied yer mouth like that, Barbossa?"

Hector wiped the blood from his chin, frowning at the sight of it. "That sow of a wench in there," he admitted reluctantly.

Turk roared. "A lady hit yeh and did that?"

"Pipe down, ye great blood ox!" Barbossa snapped, looking around to make sure no one had heard.

"Sorry," Turk said, still sniggering. "Looks like she got yeh good."

"Twice," Hector admitted.

Starkey approached with Roberts, Cook and Durgin as they emerged from the chaos in the Faithful Bride. "Here you go, Cap'n," he said, handing over the sword he'd retrieved from where Hector had dropped it near the bar.

"Thankee kindly, Master Starkey," Hector said, hanging it at his hip. "What say ye to waitin' fer Harlow on board the ship? I believe we have a fair enough supply of fine rum fer the rest of the evenin'."

All of the others readily agreed that it would be best to leave the vicinity of the Bride, and they made their way back to the _Wicked Wench_.

Laughing and joking about the events in the tavern, Hector and the others managed to climb aboard the ship, heading for the cabin to do a bit more drinking. In the middle of placing bets with Turk as to whether or not Harlow came back to the ship that evening or in the morning, both drew up abruptly as they entered the cabin and were greeted with a round of pistol hammers being cocked.

Instantly sober, it took them only a moment to see that seven armed pirates had been waiting for them just inside the door, accompanied by one more who sat at the captain's table.

"Evenin', gentlemen," the last one spoke, and Hector's blood ran cold when he recognized that it was Hawkeye Hartwell sitting in his chair.


	36. Chapter 36

**A/N:** Apologies for the long delay in updates. Blasted real life and my ongoing job search have cut into my free time more than I like. Here's the next chapter now that my muse decided to visit for the weekend. I promise the next one won't be far behind! :)

--

**Chapter Thirty-six ~*~**

**--**

_Starkey approached with Roberts, Cook and Durgin as they emerged from the chaos in the Faithful Bride. "Here you go, Cap'n," he said, handing over the sword he'd retrieved from where Hector had dropped it near the bar._

"_Thankee kindly, Master Starkey," Hector said, hanging it at his hip. "What say ye to waitin' fer Harlow on board the ship? I believe we have a fair enough supply of fine rum fer the rest of the evenin'."_

_All of the others readily agreed that it would be best to leave the vicinity of the Bride, and they made their way back to the Wicked Wench._

_Laughing and joking about the events in the tavern, Hector and the others managed to climb aboard the ship, heading for the cabin to do a bit more drinking. In the middle of placing bets with Turk as to whether or not Harlow came back to the ship that evening or in the morning, both drew up abruptly as they entered the cabin and were greeted with a round of pistol hammers being cocked._

_Instantly sober, it took them only a moment to see that seven armed pirates had been waiting for them just inside the door, accompanied by one more who sat at the captain's table._

"_Evenin', gentlemen," the last one spoke, and Hector's blood ran cold when he recognized that it was Hawkeye Hartwell sitting in his chair._

--

Barbossa's fists clenched as he realized just who it was that addressed him from his own chair, and his expression hardened instantly. "What are ye doin' aboard me ship, Hartwell?" he sneered, obviously unhappy.

"_Your_ ship?" Hartwell asked, not moving from his seat. "This ship belonged to the East India Trading Company last I knew."

"Well, yer a bit behind the times then, Hartwell," Turk chimed in. "This here ship belongs to Barbossa. It were commandeered fair 'n square."

Hartwell quirked the eyebrow above his remaining eye upward. "Ah, you mean that subtle piece of work where you all managed to destroy half of Malagueña and set Beckett off on a rampage against all pirates in these waters? Yes, I heard about that – nicely done, gentlemen...you have yourselves a ship and now half of the Royal navy is patrolling the best shipping lanes."

Hartwell stood up and walked around the table to where Barbossa, Turk and the other four were standing, being held at gunpoint. "Shame that Morgan didn't send a more experienced pirate to commandeer this ship."

"More experienced, like yerself?" Barbossa snarled. "Ye'd have taken the _Arabesque_ like the fine arse-kisser ye'd be to Morgan, and not have had the stones to take this lass here."

Hartwell came closer and stared Barbossa down for a long moment, his irritation masked, but his dislike for Hector quite apparent still. "Is it just me, Barbossa," he said in a dangerous low voice, "or are you the one who should currently be minding his manners?" He glanced meaningfully at the handful of loaded pistols pointed at Barbossa.

Undaunted by Hartwell's threat, Hector snarled back in reply. "Since when does a whoreson maggot like you concern yerself with manners? If yeh did, ye'd have not come aboard my ship uninvited."

Hartwell stared Barbossa down for another second or two, and then opting not to reply, changed the subject. "Morgan sent me to find you and deliver a message. He wants you to bring his ship back to Port Royal."

Barbossa ignored Hartwell's less than subtle implication that the _Wicked Wench _was Morgan's and not his. "What does he want? His last instructions were to make the ship scarce an' find meself a decent crew."

Hartwell motioned for the guns pointed at Barbossa's men to be lowered, and he relayed what Morgan had told him. "Morgan wants another ship to help with the blockade in Jamaica," he explained evenly. "He's recalled my ship, as well as Thomas, Kent, Averill, and McKendry."

"Blockade?" Turk asked, getting Hartwell's attention.

"Yes, Mr. Turk, blockade. While the handful of ships the navy has are out patrolling the shipping lanes for pirates, the Brethren will be ensuring that no ship leaves Port Royal in the immediate future," Hartwell explained.

"Especially any belongin' to the Company, I'll wager," Hector replied, understanding immediately what Morgan was up to. "'Twill be Morgan's way of puttin' another sting in Beckett's arse, aye?"

"Aye," Harwell replied, "and a more subtle one than your destruction of Malagueña, Barbossa. You'd do well to learn the art of subtlety from Captain Morgan."

"And ye'd do well to learn a bit of manners from 'im," Hector snarled quietly. "If there be nothin' else, I'd be most obliged if ye'd get yer own arse off my ship."

Hartwell regarded Barbossa coolly for another moment, and then without a word, beckoned to his men and strode out of the cabin.

"Gah! I hate that gutless snake," Turk complained once Hartwell had gone. "I don't trust him, and I don't see why Morgan does."

Hector had already moved onto other matters as the others murmured their concurrence with Turk's comment. "We need to prepare the ship tonight, Starkey," he said. "See to it we're ready to sail at first light."

"Aye, Captain," Starkey said, and he left with the others in tow, leaving only Turk behind.

Turk frowned and addressed his captain. "So what happens if them navy ships decide to head back to Port Royal while we happen to be in the area?"

Hector smiled grimly at him. "I reckon that's why Morgan has called back some of the Brethren from the Spanish Main," he said wryly. "Kent sails with two hundred men, and McKendry as well. Averill owes Morgan a debt, otherwise that blood-thirsty son of a whore'd still be ravagin' the coast near Puerto Bello fer fun."

"Two hundred men, eh?" Turk replied, obviously impressed. "How many poor bastards we have to our name?"

Barbossa shrugged and smiled a bit sheepishly. "Thirty-seven."

Turk clapped him on the shoulder and went to help Harlow prepare the ship. "Well, it's not the size of the crew that counts, it's the number of arses we kick in the end, ain't it?"

Barbossa smirked. "Yer sayin' that size doesn't matter, are ye?"

"Nah, that's bullshit and yeh know it." Turk grinned and winked at him, and then ducked out of the cabin.

--

Henry Morgan sat as his desk, dressed in his finest coat and busy writing. He was in the process of making himself some notes about what he wanted to say that afternoon in the speech he was going to give, and his mind had started wandering to other matters.

Trying to figure out the exact best way to phase what he wanted to say, he leaned back in his fine mahogany chair and gazed out the window that overlooked some of the town and the harbor. There sat two ships –the _Goshawk_; single remaining defender of the port, and the _Oxford_, now employed in guarding the fine citizens of Port Royal as well.

Of course, as far as those fine citizens were concerned, that had ever been all the _Oxford _had been employed for. He knew better, but that didn't mean that any of them needed to be informed of such matters. The governor and the magistrates of the town were currently feeling profoundly indebted to him once again, seeing as how their grand navy had sent all five other ships out to look for pirates, leaving Port Royal vulnerable. And lo and behold, pirates had decided to take advantage of the fortuitous circumstances, and set a blockade of the town, essentially holding it hostage. As former lieutenant governor and defender of Jamaica, he'd instantly volunteered his precious _Oxford_ to help protect her from those scurvy brigands, alongside the lone _Goshawk_.

In fact, the governor and other officials had felt so indebted to him for his past fine service in the name of His Majesty and the good people of Jamaica, that they were naming the new fort after him at the dedication ceremony this very afternoon. _Fort Morgan_ had such a lovely ring to it, he thought, smirking to himself.

If they ever knew that the presence of the four ships of buccaneers holding the town hostage was actually his doing...

He smiled at the thought, and then mentally corrected himself. It was five ships now that Barbossa and his small but fiercely loyal crew had made it back from Tortuga in that fantastic ship he'd commandeered. True, when he'd sent Barbossa to take the _Arabesque_, he'd known that no pirate worth his salt would be able to pass up the temptation of the far superior ship, and from what he could tell, Barbossa was shaping up to be worth his weight in much more than salt.

His intent had been to rile the Company, and in turn the navy, so that they might leave to pursue the brigands who had stolen the finest ship this side of the Atlantic, and the devastation Barbossa and his crew had wrought was just an unexpected but advantageous bonus. Just as he had wagered, Charles Beckett had nearly gone off the deep end, and every last ship of the small Jamaican fleet was out searching for the beautiful stolen ship and Barbossa.

Who was actually on board said ship, which was stationed not half a mile offshore, not far from McKendry's vessel, seeing to it that no ship either left or entered Port Royal harbor.

Morgan caught movement below the window out of the corner of his eye, and leaned forward to see who it was that was approaching the mansion. Another smirk crossed his face, and he leaned back from the window, not wanting to be seen watching his approaching visitor.

Judging by the way Charles Beckett was currently storming up his walkway, he was fit to be tied. Just the fact that Beckett had decided to get off his arse and come in person, was a testament to how irritated the man must be.

Perfect. Let him be irritated –the more the better.

It was only a minute after the distant knock on the front entrance that another brief but sharp rap came on his study door, and it burst opened. Beckett didn't even wait to be announced, and brusquely pushed past the flustered servant trying in vain to notify Morgan he had a visitor.

"This is your doing!" he said, barging into the room, hat still on his head and fists clenched.

Morgan silently gesture for his ruffled servant to leave, and now irritated himself, the man shot a curt look at Beckett and shut the door.

"Charles," Morgan said cordially, remaining composed as he stood, despite the fact that the man standing before his desk was clearly not.

"Don't you _Charles_ me, Morgan," Beckett spat acidly. "In know this is your doing –you put them up to this!"

"I don't quite follow you, Charles," Morgan said placidly. "I put _who_ up to _what_, exactly?"

"The pirates!" Beckett snarled, even more agitated.

"The pirates?" Morgan said, remaining cool, but rather enjoying the way the small vein in Beckett's forehead was bulging.

Beckett slammed a fist on his desk. "Don't even think for a minute that you can pass this off as coincidence to me! I'm not blind like that idiot the governor, or any of those other fawning prats who worship the ground you walk on."

"Fawning prats? That's rather harsh, don't you think, Charles? Just because they wouldn't heed my protests to name the fort after someone more deserving..."

The vein in Beckett's forehead darkened further as he became incensed. "I'm not talking about the bloody fort, Morgan. I'm talking about your pirates! They're ruining my business! I can't bloody get a ship in or out of the harbor, thanks to you!"

"Thanks to me?" Morgan asked, taking on an air that was the perfect measure of indignation and bafflement. "Just what are you insinuating, Charles?"

"I'm not insinuating anything, Morgan. I'm flat out telling you that I know you put those dirty rogues up to this, and I want an end of it!"

Morgan waived him off, acting annoyed and insulted and sat back in his chair. "I'm wounded that you'd think such a thing of me. Am I not defending your interests at the moment with my very own ship?"

Beckett frowned, still suspicious and irate. "I don't care what you say – all of this is your doing. You put that blockade in place. You stole my ship!"

"Stole your ship?" Morgan repeated, now letting his expression darken. "I have never stolen a ship in my life. Why would I possibly need to steal a ship? Clearly I have my own." He gestured out the window to where the _Oxford's _masts could be seen in the harbor.

"You put Barbossa up to it!" Beckett spat.

Morgan frowned and then looked as if realization had dawned. "Ah," he said, now appearing to calm down. "Is that what this is about?"

"And the blockade!" Beckett added.

"Yes, well, I don't blame you for being agitated about your ship...what's it called, the _Windy something_?"

"The _Wicked Wench_," Beckett snarled back, "and she cost me a fortune to have built! She hadn't even been properly christened before your lackey ripped her from her moorings and made off with her."

Morgan looked contrite. "I do apologize for what Barbossa has done, but alas, it was not my doing. I have no control over what he does anymore. A shame it is that he left the crew of the _Oxford_ for this apparent streak of piracy. Such a fine privateer he would have made..." Morgan trailed off, seeming genuinely regretful.

Beckett let his ire drop off a notch, although he still sounded plenty skeptical. "So, you're saying you didn't put him up to stealing my ship?"

"I swear to you, Charles, that I never told him to steal the...what did you say she was called, the _Wicked Witch_?" Morgan asked.

"_Wicked Wench_," Beckett correct again, still annoyed.

Which was completely and totally true, Morgan thought as he watched Charles apparently start to become at least partially convinced. He'd actually instructed Barbossa to steal the _Arabesque_, but that was a tiny detail he thought that Charles could live without.

"And what about those pirate ships?" Beckett asked pointedly.

"I'm doing my best to get the captain of the _Rising Sun_ to negotiate," Morgan said with a heartfelt sigh.

"Interesting that the pirates will negotiate with you, and not with my envoy," Beckett said, a measure of vague accusation still in his manner.

"Apparently the fact that your envoy, Webster, was arrogant and rude didn't help your cause at all," Morgan said sternly. "All you did was offend them and hurt our chances of resolving this peacefully."

Beckett said nothing in reply. The fact that the unfortunate Webster had returned without his head and adorned with the words _'piss off'_ carved into his chest, had said volumes about how negotiations with Captain Averill were likely to fare. Webster's head, from what he'd been told, was now a morbid trophy hanging from a yard of the _Rising Sun_.

"Respect is what is needed here, Charles. These men, and especially these captains, want acknowledgement of the fact that they're in charge," Morgan explained. "Diplomacy and compromise are called for at this point, if we want to avoid the unpleasantness of a naval skirmish in the very harbor of Port Royal."

"And how do you propose we go about arranging this..._compromise_?" Beckett asked, acting as if the word tasted bad.

"I have arranged to go in person at sundown tomorrow to meet with the captains of the five ships aboard the _Rising Sun_," Morgan replied evenly. "We need to find out what it is they want and see about meeting their demands."

"Don't you think that's a bit risky?" Beckett asked, scrutinizing Morgan carefully.

Morgan nodded. "But something must be done. We can't afford to just sit and wait and hope the other navy vessels might arrive back in time. I do hope to avoid any more loss of life," he added, "including my own." He smiled wryly.

--

Morgan had seen Beckett out, and although the irritated man still remained suspicious, he'd evidently decided to play along for the moment, understanding that pirate or not, Morgan was his best hope for eliminating the blockade anytime soon. While Morgan already knew, in detail, what the Brethren would demand, since the demands were actually his own to by issued by proxy, he knew he had to pull off the charade of negotiating with the very men he had ordered back from the Spanish Main.

--

Hector paced back and forth agitatedly across the deck of the _Wicked_ _Wench_, periodically scrutinizing the docks and the shore of Tortuga as he grew more annoyed. He'd planned on leaving at daybreak, and even though it was nearly noon, there'd been no sign of Harlow.

He glanced at Turk as the bo'sun approached. "Any sign of him?" he asked, seething.

Turk shook his head. "Nah, couldn't find hide nor hair of 'im. I'll bet he's still asleep next to that pretty little Meredith."

"A fine time he picked to get laid," Barbossa snarled quietly, scrutinizing the shore for signs of his first mate once again.

"Cut 'im a break, Hector," Turk said with soft amusement. "It's not everyday a bloke falls in love."

Barbossa quietly sneered. "I'll cut him a break, sure enough –I'll break his fingers if he's not here in the next ten bloody minutes."

"Well, then he's in luck," Turk said with a smirk, nodding his head toward shore, where a very frazzled Harlow was hurrying toward the ship, carrying a bundle in his arms.

When he made it on deck he came face to face with Hector, who stood there with his arms folded across his chest and an unblinking steel gaze fastened on Harlow. "Yer late, Thomas," was all he said before walking off, but it was enough to convey just exactly how displeased he was with his wayward first mate.

Turk stood there grinning. "Have a good night, did yeh, yeh old dog? Had to sleep in a bit this morning...or were yeh busy uncrossing that serving girl's legs again?"

Harlow became annoyed at that point, and headed aft with Turk in tow, clearly looking for details. "You know," he said, still hugging the black bundle he carried in his arms to his chest, "just because you feel the need to ask me, does not mean that I feel the need to answer you."

Turk scrutinized Harlow carefully and then grinned again. "Yeh didn't get any, did yeh?"

"It's none of your business," Harlow replied curtly.

"No, that's it. Yeh didn't get anywhere with that sweet little thing, did yeh?" Turk asked, persisting in grilling his friend mercilessly.

Harlow came to a dead stop and turned and faced Turk, clearly serious and quite annoyed. "Look, mate. There are some women that you just don't do something as stupid as trying to get under their skirt the first evening you spend time with them. As far as I'm concerned, Meredith is one of them."

Turk would have liked to have teased his shipmate more, but Harlow appeared dead serious and quite sincere, and he knew better than to say anything else. "Yeh really like her, don't yeh?" he asked softly.

"Aye," Harlow said, his manner more relaxed once he knew Turk was letting up on him. "Spent the whole night talking to her about everything you can imagine. She's really smart, she's funny, she's pretty, she..."

"Has nice tits," Turk interjected, causing Harlow to smile at last.

"Aye, that too," Harlow replied, grinning.

"And best of all she seems to like yer sorry arse," Turk continued.

"Exactly," Harlow replied, laughing a bit.

"So what the fuck yeh got there anyway, mate?" Turk asked, gesturing at the bundle that Harlow carried. "I thought maybe yeh'd pulled a Barbossa and stolen the girl's dress."

Harlow shook his head, and then gave Turk a mischievous smile. "One other thing about Meredith," he said, "is she's an amazing seamstress. Took her all night while we talked to finish this...it's why I was so damn late."

Turk looked at the black bundle with curiosity. "So, what is it?"

Harlow looked nothing if not smug at that point. "Let's just say that Barbossa will be a lot less annoyed that I was late once he sees this."

--


	37. Chapter 37

**A/N: **Well, a new chapter at last, mates. My muse has been fickle, to say the least, but some chocolate and iced coffee finally lured her out to write more NBHP. :)

--

**Chapter Thirty-Eight ~*~**

--

_Harlow came to a dead stop and turned and faced Turk, clearly serious and quite annoyed. "Look, mate. There are some women that you just don't do something as stupid as trying to get under their skirt the first evening you spend time with them. As far as I'm concerned, Meredith is one of them."_

_Turk would have liked to have teased his shipmate more, but Harlow appeared dead serious and quite sincere, and he knew better than to say anything else. "Yeh really like her, don't yeh?" he asked softly._

_"Aye," Harlow said, his manner more relaxed once he knew Turk was letting up on him. "Spent the whole night talking to her about everything you can imagine. She's really smart, she's funny, she's pretty, she..."_

_"Has nice tits," Turk interjected, causing Harlow to smile at last._

_"Aye, that too," Harlow replied, grinning._

_"And best of all she seems to like yer sorry arse," Turk continued._

_"Exactly," Harlow replied, laughing a bit._

_"So what the fuck yeh got there anyway, mate?" Turk asked, gesturing at the bundle that Harlow carried. "I thought maybe yeh'd pulled a Barbossa and stolen the girl's dress."_

_Harlow shook his head, and then gave Turk a mischievous smile. "One other thing about Meredith," he said, "is she's an amazing seamstress. Took her all night while we talked to finish this...it's why I was so damn late."_

_Turk looked at the black bundle with curiosity. "So, what is it?"_

_Harlow looked nothing if not smug at that point. "Let's just say that Barbossa will be a lot less annoyed that I was late once he sees this."_

_--_

Just as Hartwell had said, once the _Wicked Wench_ had made her way back to the waters near Port Royal, all the Navy ships but one small frigate had been sent to scour the seas for pirates, after the devastating raid on Malagueña.

Four pirate ships now surrounded the harbor, at a distance well beyond the range of Fort Charles' guns, but close enough that they might interfere with or threaten any ship trying to enter or depart the port.

Barbossa stood on the quarterdeck as he scrutinized the vessels through a spyglass, noting that two of the ships, undoubtedly Kent's and McKendry's, were monstrous great vessels, clearly manned by enormous crews. A third ship, more streamlined than the other two, sat further out to sea, and the fourth, Averill's distinct _Rising Sun_, sat closest to the harbor. Beyond the pirate ships, Hector could see the two vessels in defensive positions in the harbor, under cover of the fort's guns: the _Goshawk_ and the _Oxford_.

Instantly he understood the significance of Morgan's actions, and he smiled to himself as he realized that his former captain was playing both sides of the coin once again.

While he assessed the situation in the bay, Harlow and Turk came to stand nearby.

"Those are some wicked-lookin' ships," Turk said casually.

"Loaded to the gills they are with firepower," Hector commented from where he was still watching activity on the deck of the closest ship, the streamlined, two-masted, battle-scarred vessel that was now coming about.

"Seems to me we have a bit of a problem," Turk continued, eying the same ship.

Hector realized what Turk was insinuating at the same time, unhappy that the other ship was apparently moving to intercept the _Wicked Wench_. While Morgan knew who Barbossa was, the four captains of the blockade did not, and would treat them as a ship to be raided and plundered, or at the very least, chased out of the harbor.

"Merda!" he swore, putting down the spyglass. "We need to identify ourselves, lest we be shot at or boarded."

"And how would we go about doing that?" Harlow asked, uncharacteristically calm now that they had discovered they were in trouble.

"Yeah," Turk said, nearly seeming cheerful, "how would we do that?"

Hector started to get irritated. "We need to find somethin' to act as a black flag. Sharply!"

"Like a black shirt?" Harlow asked, grinning now.

"Or a pair of black trousers...that'd make a fine Jolly Roger, wouldn't it, Thomas?" Turk said to Harlow.

"Aye, that'd look mighty fine in front of all those pirates and Morgan," Harlow agreed, leaning casually on the rail nearby, "someone's breeches flapping in the wind."

"I don't care what it be –jus' find somethin' and quick, or we're going to find ourselves bein' raided by that ship," Hector snarled, clearly impatient.

"Oh, alright," Turk said resignedly. "I suppose. I don't see why we don't just hoist our colors."

Barbossa scowled darkly at him. "Master Turk, has it occurred to ye that the only colors that are likely to be on this ship are those of the East India Tradin' Comp'ny? I think ye'd understand why we'd not want to hoist them in these particular circumstances?" he asked sarcastically, glancing meaningfully at the pirate ships in the distance.

"Nah, that never occurred to me," Turk replied, still grinning, "but it did occur to bloody Harlow, believe it or not."

"What are ye speakin' of?" Barbossa demanded.

"Give the order to hoist the colors," Harlow said quietly, looking quite smug.

"Are ye daft?" Hector asked, clearly still irritated.

"Do it, Barbossa," Turk said, clapping Hector on the shoulder. "Trust us."

Something in the look in Turk's eye caught Hector's attention, and he realized that the two were up to something they deemed important yet amusing. Deciding to humor them, he barked orders across the deck.

"Heave to and take in sail! Master Roberts!" he called, getting the pirate's attention where he stood near the mainmast. "Hoist the colors!"

To Barbossa's surprise, the instructions did not come as one to Roberts, who cheerfully gave a mock salute at the order, and proceeded to haul on the necessary ropes. He continued to watch, clearly shocked, as a great black standard rose up the mast. Halfway to the top, the wind caught hold of the material, and with resounding snap, it rippled open sharply.

Hector had all he could do not to let his mouth drop open at the sight of the grinning skull and crossed swords flying high overhead, and he quickly turned to Harlow and Turk for an explanation. The two of them were looking quite pleased with themselves, and after a long moment of watching Barbossa look at the flag, back at them, and then at the flag once more, Turk finally spoke.

"Yeh can thank The Powers that Harlow here has a lick of sense about him and thought to plan ahead," he said, punching Harlow in the arm.

Harlow winced and clapped a hand over his newest bruise from Turk. "I hope you like it – Meredith made it for me last night."

"Last night?" Hector asked, still in awe of the black standard that flew smartly from the peak of the mainmast. "But that must have taken...ah, 'tis why you were late."

Harlow shrugged.

"Well, all is forgiven and then some, Thomas," Hector said quietly. "I've not seen a finer flag before, and if I have aught to say 'bout it, it'll fly over this fair lass for many a year."

Harlow beamed, understanding the thanks inherent in Barbossa's words.

"'Tis a shame though, that yer lady be more interested in sewing the Roger than bein' Rogered," Barbossa added wryly, punching Harlow in the other arm. He gave one more admiring glance at the flag before returning to scrutinizing the approaching ship. "Ah, there...yeh see? She's heaved to and is launchin' a boat. Looks like we're about to have company."

--

The boat that arrived at the _Wicked Wench _carried a half-dozen pirates accompanying a messenger from Captain Thomas, commander of the small but sleek and fast _Kestrel, _which sat anchored not far off the larboard side. Barbossa's crew gathered around him as he watched as the messenger, a pirate missing an ear and with what appeared to be burn scars down the same side of his face, stepped through the rail and onto the deck before him.

"You are Captain Barbossa?" he asked, addressing Hector.

"Aye," Barbossa replied, "and who wants to know?"

"Name's Tibbets," the scarred pirate answered, "first mate of the _Kestrel_. Cap'n Thomas sends his greetings and also word from Captain Morgan." Tibbets held out a small folded piece of parchment embellished with the familiar seal of Henry Morgan.

"Thankee," Barbossa replied, taking the letter offered to him and opening it. He read it quickly as Tibbets continued.

"I suspect you'll find it confirms the invitation I am about to pass along to you. The captains of all five ships are to meet this evening aboard the _Rising Sun_, Captain Averill's ship."

Barbossa nodded briefly in acknowledgement as he read the same thing in Morgan's note.

"You'll be expected at first watch," Tibbets continued. "You can bring only one crew member with you."

"Seems a bit risky if yeh ask me," Turk interjected, frowning at the thought.

Tibbets shrugged. "Those are the terms of the meeting, whether we like it or not," he said, hinting at the possibility that he also did not care for the situation. "Besides, with the size of Averill's crew aboard the _Rising Sun_, it wouldn't matter if you brought all your men."

Barbossa nodded again, knowing that the _Sun _carried close to two hundred men, compared to his loyal but small crew of thirty-seven. "If the situation be good enough fer Morgan, it be good enough fer me. We'll be there."

Tibbets nodded and returned to the boat with his escort.

"I'm goin' with yeh," Turk said to Barbossa the moment Tibbets was gone, in a manner that left little room for argument.

Hector agreed and turned to Harlow. "Ye'll be in charge while I'm gone. If anythin' happens, get the crew and the _Wench_ out of Port Royal."

"You don't have to tell me twice," Harlow answered, looking just as happy that he wasn't going to be required to accompany Hector aboard the intimidating _Rising Sun_.

--

"You sure you really want to do this?" Starkey asked, as he shipped his oar and glanced at where the ladder rose up the side of the _Sun_, leading to the deck far above. Roberts was doing likewise and appearing just as concerned.

"No, but it be Morgan's orders," Hector replied, noting the impressive armamentation of the ship they were coming alongside. "Besides, if these gents be willin' to make life difficult fer Mr. Charles Beckett, then we already have much in common." He stood and grabbed the first rung of the ladder, hauling himself up handily, if not a bit unevenly.

"I don't like it," Starkey lamented. "They're pirates, and you can't trust them."

Turk rolled his eyes at his comrade. "Just what is it that yeh think we are, Starkey?"

"Yeah, but are we pirates like that?" he asked, glancing overhead at the large number of rough-looking men who were watch Barbossa climb the ladder.

"I guess we'll find out," Turk replied with a grin, and he followed Hector up the ladder to the deck above.

--

The rough and weathered crew of the _Rising Sun _all stopped talking, falling into intimidating silence as Barbossa and Turk stepped at last onto the deck. Barbossa said nothing for nearly half a minute, as he gave them time to take in the appearances of the two newest arrivals: a dark-haired giant of a pirate with a scowl plastered across his face, who loomed protectively over the shoulder of the second pirate, his arms folded across his broad chest, and his captain, dressed in a fine coat with an ornate sword draped at his hip and the fang of some great beast adorning his right ear.

As the seconds stretched on and no one said anything to indicate either welcome or what was expected of them, Barbossa decided to take matters into his own hands. Sweeping a steely blue gaze across the company, his eyes came to rest on a great brute of a pirate nearly equal in stature with Turk, and one of the most intimidating figures on board the ship; with the number of scars and amount of muscle he carried, he clearly wasn't afraid to show off either. Taking a step closer to the large brigand, Barbossa finally spoke, addressing all within earshot while he stared down his target.

"Where be the captain of this fine ship?" he asked, still staring at the brute with a look that was much less pleasant than his tone of voice.

"Wot's it to you?" someone sneered from his right, and Barbossa's gaze swept, unblinking, to the speaker.

"What's it to me? Yer captain invited me to be here," Hector snarled back.

"Zat so?" the great mountain in front of him asked, grinning in a gap-toothed, unpleasant way.

"Aye, that's so," Barbossa replied, his stare returning to meet the pirate in front of him. "Barbossa's the name, captain of the _Wicked Wench_. I'd appreciate ye tellin' yer captain that I've arrived."

A small round of laughter spread across the gathered pirates, and Hector didn't have to look behind him at Turk to know that his bo'sun's frown had likely darkened.

"I'll wager he knows you're here," someone muttered from the crowded deck, and another wave of laughter rippled out across the ship.

"Yeh're Morgan's man, ain't yeh?" the towering hulk of a pirate asked, looking Hector over appraisingly. "It would be hard t' figure that out, even w' one glance at yeh," he added with equal measures of amusement and derision in his voice before Hector could reply. It was obvious that he was referring to the way Barbossa was dressed, which stood out among all the roughshod crew of the _Sun_.

"Last bloke who came on here dressed like that and demanding t' see the cap'n ended up staying a mite longer than he planned," the large pirate said, jerking his head in the direction of the mainmast. There, hanging from one of the yards and visible even at night, was the unmistakable shadow of a human head.

Barbossa threw a brief, disinterested glance in the direction of the decapitated head and shrugged. "'Tis the proper way anyone bein' so rude to a captain should end up," he said, his blue stare re-fastened on that of the big man, and his meaning unmistakable. "Now, once again, if ye'd be so kind as to inform yer captain that I'm here, I'd be much obliged."

"An' if I don't?" the man asked gruffly.

"Then I'd consider yer manners poor," Barbossa replied with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He glanced once more in the direction of the dismembered head of Beckett's envoy, Webster.

The big pirate took a threatening step forward, moving more quickly that Barbossa would have given him credit for.

"Are you threatening me?" he asked unhappily, and he made the mistake of grabbing for Barbossa's neck. His fingers had barely closed on the material of Hector's shirtfront, when he froze at the sound of a sword singing out of its scabbard and somehow found a razor-edged blade pressed coolly against the side of his neck. Neither pirate moved for a moment as a collective murmur ran through the others gathered on deck, followed by a ratcheting chorus of pistol hammers being readied.

"'Twould be suicide if I said yes," Barbossa said, answering the question that had been put to him, but I'd be willin' to bet yer captain wouldn't take kindly to yeh disrespectin' a guest of his." He stared down his assailant, although internally he smiled a little to himself; he could tell from the movement behind him that Turk now stood back to back with him with a blade in each hand. Not that it would do them much good, surrounded by dozens of pistol-wielding pirates, but it somehow amused him that his bo'sun was doing his best to cover his arse despite the odds.

The tension wore on for several more seconds, until a new yet familiar voice spoke from near the rail.

"Please tell me why it is," Henry Morgan began, with equal measures of amusement and exasperation evident in his voice, as he finished stepping onto the deck from where he had just climbed up, "that I am not as surprised as I should be to find the two of you already in hot water." He strode confidently across the dark wood, as the pirates on board stepped out of his way, opening a path across the deck to the confrontation for him.

"Less than five minutes on the deck of the _Rising Sun_, and already..." Morgan gestured at where Barbossa and the big pirate were engaged, and heaved a bit of an overly dramatic sigh. But there was something in the look he shared with Hector, and while it certainly held a fair measure of amusement, perhaps there was a hint of approval there; Barbossa wasn't sure.

"Captain Barbossa," Morgan went on, keeping his voice neutral, and smiling warmly, "if you would be so kind as to release Captain Averill, I would greatly appreciate it. Our meeting will be much more productive if he remains in possession of his head."

Barbossa's gaze shot back to the big, shaggy pirate whose neck his sword pressed against, and he only managed to mask part of his surprise that the lumbering bear before him was actually the infamous Captain Averill. The two men eyed each other appraisingly, each readjusted their initial assessment of one another as they each let go and backed away a step or two.

"So, Morgan," Averill snarled quietly, looking Barbossa up and down, "this is the type of scum yeh're dealin' wid, now eh? I suppose I should've expected that anyone with solid enough stones to blow Malagueña to hell an thumb 'is nose at Beckett would 'ave the nerve to strut aboard me very own ship and remind me of my manners."

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Morgan replied with a hint of a smirk.

"Good." Averill finally broke into a wide grin and offered Barbossa his hand. "Seth Averill," he said, burying Hector's hand in his own as they shook. "Pleased to 'ave yeh aboard, Barbossa."

--

The gathering of pirate captains took place in the great cabin of the _Rising Sun_, and Hector and Turk stood near Morgan as the others made their entrances shortly thereafter. Morgan informed them about each of the new arrivals.

"That," he said quietly, after sipping the rum he held, and nodding at the well-dressed and be-wigged older gentleman who had just ducked into the cabin and swept off an elegant plumed hat, "is Captain George Kent, better known to the Brethren as _Gunpowder George_."

"_Gunpowder George_?" Turk asked in a surprised undertone. "The bloke that always blows up his enemies?"

"Yes, Master Kempthorne," Morgan replied. "While Captain Kent may look quite the stylish gentleman, let me tell you that you would be best off not invoking his legendary temper. Those who do usually find themselves strapped to a barrel of powder with a trail of it leading from the flame in his hand to just under their head –hence the nickname, of course."

"O' course," Turk said distastefully, sharing an unsettled look with Hector.

Morgan went on as the next pirate arrived. "That would be Captain William McKendry," he said, indicating the rough-looking pirate with his dark hair pulled into a queue, and a scar that ran across his face, starting at the edge of one cheek and crossing over his nose to end near the far ear.

"He made the mistake, years ago, of accosting the daughter of one of the officers of the ship he was a sailor on. That lieutenant made the mistake, in his fury, of not having McKendry restrained as he had him flogged, and McKendry caught a stroke of the cat across his face as he tried to struggle. McKendry jumped ship several nights later when the ship made port, but not before he'd managed to strangle the bo'sun who'd flogged him, the lieutenant, and his daughter with the whip. It still remains his _modus operandi_ for dealing with those who displease him. You'll see why his wanted posters call him _Whiplash Willy_."

"Aye," Turk and Hector both croaked, each unconsciously covering their throats with a hand.

"Ah, there. That is Captain Roger Thomas," Morgan added, a few moments later, pointing at the man who was accompanied by Tibbets, the messenger from the _Kestrel_ who had boarded the _Wicked Wench _with the invitation earlier. Short in stature and slight of build, the man in the dark blue frock coat who had just entered did not appear very intimidating. "Do not let his size, or that of his ship, cause you to underestimate either of them; both can and often do strike without warning."

"Don't tell me," Turk said to Morgan quietly, grinning widely, "but his nickname is Jolly Roger."

Morgan's expression became severe. "Hardly," he replied, "and do not make the mistake of calling him such; I assure you his disposition is anything but jolly.

"The brethren simply call him Merlin, after both the legendary wizard and the small falcon; he attacks with great speed and disappears before his unfortunate prey even knows what hit them." Morgan dropped his voice even further. "A word of advice, Barbossa," he whispered, eyes still on the pirates who were gathering in the room, "do not make an enemy of _any_ of these men tonight, but if you make any friends, let it be Averill and Thomas."

Hector said nothing, but nodded once, understanding that Morgan's advice was likely invaluable, as he'd long ago taken the measure of all the captains in the room, and some of them likely the hard way. After mulling things over for a moment, he spoke quietly so that only Turk and Morgan could hear him.

"I've noticed, Morgan," he said softly, "that in me travels and dealin's with yeh these past years, I'd not heard what nickname it is that the brethren might call ye by."

Morgan said nothing, but merely smiled and turned away, walking to stand at the head of the table in the great cabin. Very quickly the rest of the notorious pirates quieted down and found themselves a place at the table, waiting for Morgan to speak. Before he said a word, Morgan shared a brief look with Hector, and the glint in his eye and very subtle smirk that he wore contained a message that was simple to read: Morgan had acquired no fearsome or colorful moniker during his career, and it was quite apparent by the way he commanded the respect and attention of the hardened pirates in the room, that he needed none.

Hector took his place at the opposite end of the table from Morgan, deciding as he sat down among the Brethren, that he rather preferred the idea, like his mentor, of naught his own name being enough to command respect across the Caribbean.

--

**A/N:** For those of you who haven't been keeping up with the news about PotC 4, today MTV announced that Geoffrey Rush will be involved with the latest installment, _On Stranger Tides_. So, it looks very likely that there will be more Hector Barbossa in our futures. :D


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter Thirty-Eight ~*~**

**--**

_"I've noticed, Morgan," he said softly, "that in me travels and dealin's with yeh these past years, I'd not heard what nickname it is that the brethren might call ye by."_

_Morgan said nothing, but merely smiled and turned away, walking to stand at the head of the table in the great cabin. Very quickly the rest of the notorious pirates quieted down and found themselves a place at the table, waiting for Morgan to speak. Before he said a word, Morgan shared a brief look with Hector, and the glint in his eye and very subtle smirk that he wore contained a message that was simple to read: Morgan had acquired no fearsome or colorful moniker during his career, and it was quite apparent by the way he commanded the respect and attention of the hardened pirates in the room, that he needed none._

_Hector took his place at the opposite end of the table from Morgan, deciding as he sat down among the Brethren, that he rather preferred the idea, like his mentor, of naught his own name being enough to command respect across the Caribbean._

--

"Gentlemen," Morgan began, addressing the gathered captains cordially, "I believe you all know why we are here."

Barbossa watched him pause for a moment while a collective murmur of acknowledgement spread across the table.

"It would seem as though the East IndiaTrading Company has been intent on putting a damper on the acquisitions and reallocation business in these waters," he added wryly, sharing a brief look with Hector across the table, and the others laughed at Morgan's euphemism for plundering.

"I'm certain that all of you agree that this is an inconvenience that must be remedied," he said.

"Aye, and sooner rather than later," Averill chimed in, causing another murmur of agreement to be issued from around the room.

"Aye," Thomas added darkly from where he sat. "The bloody Company's been cutting into our profits for months now.

Morgan waited patiently while similar sentiments were echoed by the others, and then held a hand up, quickly getting the silence he asked for.

"I think the time is right for us to act, my friends," he continued. "We must buy ourselves more time by doing what we can to strike at their fleet now."

"Buy more time?" Kent asked from where he was sitting, sipping wine and bedecked in fine clothes. Barbossa thought that he'd never seen anyone look less like a pirate –except perhaps Morgan. It was difficult to believe that the plumed and primped popinjay was as deadly as his reputation said, but if Morgan said he was dangerous, then Hector knew it to be true. Oddly enough he liked the idea of there being more than met the eye in this man.

"Why don't we just blow them all to hell and be done with them?" Kent continued.

Another round of laughter spread across the table, and Morgan smiled at the elegantly dressed captain, knowing that his comrades laughed not because the idea of decimating the EITC was funny, but because the fact that this was apparently Kent's solution for a lot of things evidently amused the gathered pirates.

"Firstly, Captain Kent," Morgan replied, "there would be the question of finding enough of us willing to actually address the issue at hand." It was clear that Morgan meant battling the small but growing Company fleet and naval presence in the area. "And secondly, if we were to eliminate the competition, it might actually prove worse for us in the long run."

"Why's that?" Barbossa asked, earning himself a look from several of the gathered captains for speaking out.

"Because, Captain Barbossa," Morgan replied, reinforcing the fact that the younger pirate was one of his hand-chosen commanders, "if we were to..."

The door to the cabin opening at that moment interrupted Morgan, and all eyes went to the front of the cabin where Hawkeye Hartwell had slipped quietly into the room.

"Ah, James," Morgan said, a glint of amusement in his eyes, "so glad you could join us at last."

Hartwell said nothing but nodded once in return, sliding into the last vacant chair, next to Barbossa

"'Bout time," Barbossa commented out of the side of his mouth, his eyes still on Morgan at the opposite end of the table.

Hartwell glanced darkly at him.

"That waterlogged cow of a ship of yers finally managed to catch up, huh?" Barbossa added under his breath, only just loud enough so that Harwell could hear.

With the blatant look of hatred that Harwell turned on Barbossa, it was clear that he was more than annoyed that the _Wicked Wench_ had fast and furiously out-sailed his _Centaur_.

Barbossa made it a point to ignore Hartwell, going out of his way to seem fascinated with what Morgan was saying, but a hint of a satisfied smirk played across his lips. He knew that is was very likely that Turk, who was standing behind his chair, was probably wearing the same expression after seeing their old first mate's irritation.

Hartwell adopted the same contrived appearance of listening intently to what Morgan was saying, but he made it a point to whisper menacingly back. "Have your fun, Barbossa, but we'll just see who has the last laugh."

"Ah, quakin' in me boots, I am," Barbossa taunted in an undertone, while all eyes at the table went to Captain Thomas as he spoke again. "Was that some sort of a threat?"

"Take it for what you will," Hartwell replied, appearing as if he were listening to Thomas, but clearly focused on the exchange between Barbossa and himself. "I'd watch yourself, if I were you, Barbossa."

"Or what?" Barbossa sneered. "Ye'll stab me in the back like the yellow dog you are? Ye'll have to catch me first, and 'tis unlikely that'd happen with that lumbering wreck ye call a ship."

While Hartwell said nothing in reply, it was clear by the color that flushed across his face that Barbossa's comments were scoring. He set his jaw firmly, biting his tongue, and returned to listening to Morgan.

Seeing that Hartwell had been shut up for the moment, Barbossa leaned back in his chair, draping himself across it in a self-satisfied manner, and picked up on the conversation at the table.

"So, as I said, Roger," Morgan went on, "by attempting to perpetrate the complete destruction and elimination of the East Inida Company, we will only be signing our death warrants. It would simply serve to outrage England and infuriate His Majesty, and I daresay that the matter of gentlemen of fortune might be one that dear Charles focuses his attentions on in a rather uncomfortable manner."

No one challenged Morgan's theory at that moment, as it was well known that the wily Pirate Lord of the Caribbean was actually on good terms, for the moment, with Charles II.

"No, Roger, it would be better to prune the new growth back to a manageable level, and deal with the devil we already know," Morgan added.

"Aye," Averill added, "'Twould be worse if more navy be sent to rout out the Brethren than it would be dealin' wid the East India. 'Sides, it's only a matter of time before both'll be a right pain in our arses."

"Captain Averill is right," Captain McKendry commented for the fist time since they'd all sat down.

"And why is that?" Barbossa asked casually, curious to hear the older pirate's reasoning. He made sure that his tone was cordial, taking his cue from Morgan.

"Greed is highly motivating," McKendry replied, somewhat wryly and eliciting a chuckle from his fellow captains at his comment. No one knew that better than the gathering of seasoned rogues on board the _Rising Sun_ at the moment. "There will always be greed, which is why there will always be pirates," McKendry continued, "but it is also why men like your Charles Beckett will persist and thrive, and why companies like the East India will grow and expand eventually, as men hungry for power and for gold turn their attention more to the Caribbean."

"Exactly what I've been saying," Morgan chimed in, reinforcing McKendry's explanation. "So, my friends, let us see what we can do to staunch the flow of gold that is bleeding from our waters and into the pockets of Beckett and his ilk, at least for the time being."

"And how do yeh propose we do that, Morgan?" Averill asked, smacking his lips after taking a great draught from the tankard he held. "I'd be happy t' lend the services of me ship to the cause, and this rabble here," he added, sweeping a hand to gesture at all the pirates gathered at the table, "ought to do likewise in my opinion."

Barbossa understood the challenge contained in Averill's words, and while there might be few pirates who would have the gumption to challenge the large and notorious captain's statement, the group surrounding the table was comprised of some of the few who might take issue with him to his face.

Morgan quickly headed off any of the irritated retorts that looked like they were brewing among the captains. "I had thought to try something less direct, Captain Averill," he began diplomatically, regaining the group's attention. "Something more subtle and more binding than brute force...not that that can't be entirely effective, when the need arises." Morgan shared a slightly wolfish grin with Averill before continuing.

"No, I believe have a better solution for this little chess match, and this is exactly the right time to implement it, with the devastating losses that the Company has suffered at the destruction of their outpost at Malaguena."

"Nice bit 'o work, that, Barbossa," Averill growled appreciatively.

All eyes at the table went briefly to Barbossa, and although he made it a point to keep his expression neutral, he couldn't help but be pleased with himself at the thought that the gathered pirate captains all knew him to be responsible.

Next to him, Hartwell let go a barely detectable snort of derision, but Barbossa wouldn't give him the satisfaction of glancing at him.

"What is it you have in mind, Morgan?" Kent asked, voicing the curiosity that all likely shared.

"Gentlemen, I believe the best way to handle this is to see to it that we bypass the EITC and appeal directly to a higher authority, while that authority is indeed still more potent. It won't be many years before the Company will likely wield more influence, but for the moment, the governor of Jamaica still does," Morgan explained.

Averill snorted with amusement. "And yeh propose that the Brethren strike an accord w' the governor hisself, do yeh? Go right over ol' Charlie Beckett's head, aye?"

Morgan's dark eyes glittered with dark amusement. "Oh, yes, Captain Averill," he replied, "that is exactly what I am proposing. It would be a most binding agreement, at least temporarily."

"And what makes you think that the governor of Jamaica will yield to the demands of cutpurses and scum like us?" Kent asked with wry humor infusing his words.

Morgan's gaze swept the table to meet each of the captains' briefly. "That reason would be the bargaining chip I am about to hand you all," he answered.

"And what might that be, Captain?" Barbossa asked, curious as to what Morgan thought might have such an influence on the governor.

"Why thank you for asking, Captain Barbossa," Morgan said with a smile. "That would in fact, be me."

--

Once the pirate captains had finalized the details of their plan, all of them rose from the table to return to their respective ships, Barbossa and Turk included. They had headed for the cabin door to make their way on deck just as Hartwell had done the same and roughly shouldered Barbossa into the wood frame on the way through the door.

Turk, having no great love for Hartwell himself, and displeased at the one-eyed pirate's antagonistic gesture, snarled softly to Hector. "I'll pitch his arse over the side, if yeh like, Barbossa."

Hector rubbed his shoulder briefly where he'd bruised it on the door. "Nay, leave him be. The time will come when Hartwell will get his comeuppance, and I'd like greatly to be the one as hands it to him to shove up his own arse."

The two pirates waited on the deck of the _Rising Sun_ for the boat from the _Wicked_ _Wench_ that they'd signaled for, and discussed the matter at hand as they waited for Starkey and Roberts to ferry them off the large vessel.

"So, do yeh think Morgan's plan will work?" Turk asked quietly.

"Aye, I reckon if he thinks it'll succeed, that it will. I think it lucky that Beckett's man Webster met his maker the way he did, not so long ago," Barbossa added, glancing across the deck at where the shadow of the head could still be seen hanging from a yard, "not fer Webster, of course..."

Turk grinned wryly at Hector's comment.

"But it'll convince the governor that the pirates aren't muckin' about, and that Morgan is truly in danger of losin' his head – something that Beckett would only be too happy to see happen, but not the governor. Especially seein' as how they just named that bloody fort after 'im." Barbossa smirked at the thought of the grand ceremony that had been held in Henry Morgan's honor. If the governor ever knew he'd named the fort after the Pirate Lord of the Caribbean Sea...

"Yeh think the governor will really agree to the terms tomorrow?" Turk asked, leaning on the rail.

"Banning expansion of the East India Tradin' Company in Port Royal and immunity for the ships of the Brethren fer five years? I doubt it," Barbossa replied, "and so does Morgan, but he's got a lot ridin' on the fact that he thinks that he'll get a couple of years at least."

"Speak of the devil," Turk said, nodding at a point past Barbossa's shoulder to indicate Hector should look. There, headed their way, was Morgan.

"Ah, Barbossa, there you are," Morgan said cordially. "A word if you don't mind?" Morgan indicated that the three should return to Averill's cabin, where Averill was the only pirate remaining.

"Sit, please," Morgan said, taking a chair next to the large pirate captain. The two couldn't have painted more contrasting pictures –Morgan with his fine embroidered frockcoat and elegant plumed hat, and Averill with his great bulk, unkempt appearance and faded bandana around his head. "You too, Mister Kempthorne," Morgan added cordially, gesturing Hector's tall bo'sun to a second chair.

Despite the outward appearances, Hector knew who was probably the more dangerous pirate, and he and Turk were seated next to one another, sharing a look that said they both were dead curious as to what was about to be discussed without the other pirate captains around.

"I'm sure you're wondering why it is that I asked you back," Morgan said, smiling at the younger pirates as he sat next to Averill, "and I shall get right to the point. I need a favor, Barbossa, and you are one of the few pirates that I trust with this particular task."

"Why not ask Captain Averill here?" Hector asked, thinking more aloud than he'd really intended to.

"That might imply that Morgan actually trusts me," Averill grumbled pleasantly, and he grinned crookedly.

"Oh, shut it," Morgan growled back softly. "I trust you enough to let you be the one to kidnap me."

"Aye, there is that," Averill said, smirking still. "I'll be able to add that tidbit to me list of accomplishments now."

Barbossa remembered what Morgan had said about Averill earlier –that if he made any friends among the pirate captains, that Averill should definitely be one of them.

"But we digress," Morgan chided the other pirate as he reached for a bottle of rum on the table and poured four measures, then handing them out and taking one himself. "Let me get right to the point, my friends," he added while Averill began to grin crookedly again and Barbossa and Turk took pulls at their drinks.

Morgan's manner became suddenly serious, and he looked from one to the other intently. "Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "if you would be so kind, I need you to kidnap my wife."

The two younger pirates began choking and sputtering on the rum they'd each tried to drink as the Pirate Lord of the Caribbean Sea made the favor he required of them clear.

~*~


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter Thirty-Nine ~*~**

--

_Barbossa remembered what Morgan had said about Averill earlier –that if he made any friends among the pirate captains, that Averill should definitely be one of them._

_"But we digress," Morgan chided the other pirate as he reached for a bottle of rum on the table and poured four measures, then handing them out and taking one himself. "Let me get right to the point, my friends," he added while Averill began to grin crookedly again and Barbossa and Turk took pulls at their drinks._

_Morgan's manner became suddenly serious, and he looked from one to the other intently. "Gentlemen," he said solemnly, "if you would be so kind, I need you to kidnap my wife."_

_The two younger pirates began choking and sputtering on the rum they'd each tried to drink as the Pirate Lord of the Caribbean Sea made the favor he required of them clear._

_--_

Captain Averill and Captain Morgan shared an amused look with each other as they waited a moment for Barbossa and Turk to stop gagging on their rum long enough to form a sentence.

"You _what_?" Barbossa managed to croak between coughing fits, while Turk sputtered next to him.

"Need you to kidnap my wife," Morgan repeated patiently before taking a sip of his own rum.

"That," Barbossa said hoarsely, "is what I thought ye said."

"Why would yeh do that?" Turk asked incredulously. "And why us?"

Averill piped up across the table. "Because yeh have the stones t' do it," he said genially, causing Turk to grin.

"Yes, well that would be one reason," Morgan continued, somewhat amused, "but I surmise that you'll want something more of an explanation."

"'Ye'd surmise rightly," Barbossa replied, slinging back a goodly measure of rum, knowing he was probably going to need it once Morgan explained what it was he had in mind.

"Well, since the notorious Captain Averill has _kidnapped_ me, thwarting my attempts to negotiate with the pirates on behalf of the town of Port Royal," Morgan began, watching Averill smirk to himself, "that will leave Mary alone at home."

"Aye," Barbossa said in acknowledgement, still waiting for more information.

"I will be stuck here on this ship, waiting to see what my fate will be, as the messenger Captain Averill will send in the morning delivers the news that the Brethren are demanding that the East India Company cease its expansion, and likewise cease hunting down and antagonizing their ships for the next five years. Of course, he'll also deliver the news that should their demands not be met, my head will join that of the unfortunate Mr. Webster upon the yards."

"Nah, I got a special place fer it right up front...danglin' it from t' bowsprit'd be a nice touch," Averill chimed in, smirking as he lifted his rum to his lips again.

Morgan shot him a dark look, causing him to chuckle into his cup, and then continued on with his explanation.

"While none of us even remotely expects that Charles Beckett or the EITC will be inclined in any manner to acquiesce to such a request, I've obviously gambled heavily that my friend the governor will be eager enough to secure my safe return that he'll put a great deal of pressure on Beckett, threatening to revoke their charter in Jamaica temporarily if need be.

"The matter would need to be then sorted out in England, causing months and months of valuable time and money lost for the Company; Beckett will be better off negotiating and agreeing to keeping his operations at status quo for a couple of years and leaving the Brethren alone, rather than risk losing more by having the governor follow through with his sanctions against the Company."

"Yeah, I get all that," Turk replied, "but how is it that yer missus plays into all of this?"

"She's not part of the gamble," Barbossa answered before Morgan could, having pieced more of the puzzle together.

"She can't be," Morgan said simply, and it was obvious from the way he said it that he meant it, sincere concern evident in his manner.

"Being a hostage yerself, ye can't get to her," Barbossa continued, "and although yer nearly certain that ye'll pull this off, ye can't risk Beckett convincin' the governor that the Brethren are bluffin' about cuttin' off yer head. 'Twould incriminate both you and yer missus should the demands not be met, but yer head remains upon yer neck."

"Precisely, so, should things go badly, that would leave us only two choices," Morgan carried on.

"Cut off yer head," Averill offered with a smile, earning himself a look from Morgan that said he was trying to be infinitely patient with his friend's amusement at the thought of his head decorating the _Rising Sun_.

"Or get Mary out of the picture so that they can't accuse her or do anythin' to her if yer found out," Turk concluded, now understanding Morgan's reasoning.

"It also won't hurt to have her taken very publicly as a hostage," Morgan replied. "It will appear to strengthen the Brethren's position by having two captives, and Mary's abduction is sure to rile up a good deal of public outcry- perhaps even more than my own," Morgan finished with a small wry smile.

"So, why us, Cap'n?" Barbossa asked.

"Because there are very few people that I trust, Barbossa; in fact, aside from Mary, half of them are in this room," Morgan said. "You know Port Royal and my house like the back of your hand, you're smart enough to pull it off, and Mary also trusts you.

"Your ship is perhaps even faster than the _Oxford_, I'd wager, and if things should truly fall apart, then there is no place I would rather have my wife than on her way to Wales with a head start over the navy aboard the fastest ship in the Caribbean."

"_Phheeeewww."_ Turk let out a long low whistle as he realized the enormity of what Morgan might be asking of them in the unlikely event that their plan should fail.

"There are not many pirates I would entrust my dear wife to," Morgan said quietly, sharing a meaningful look across the table with Barbossa.

"Besides," he continued on after a minute, in a lighter tone, "kidnapping her would be just the sort of thing that Charles would expect of a vile brigand such as yourself, Barbossa."

"Aye, perhaps I can earn meself another five hundred guineas on the reward Beckett has out for me," Barbossa said smartly.

"How much is it now?" Averill asked out of curiosity.

"After Malagueña? About four thousand guineas," Turk answered cheerfully.

"Four thousand!" Averill exclaimed, laughing out loud. "Yeh've been popular with ol' Charlie Beckett, I see."

"Barbossa's one of his favorites," Turk replied, punching Hector in the arm.

"Yeah, if'n yeh get to five thousand after kidnapping Henry's missus, yeh'd better watch out I don't try to collect that meself," Averill said, grinning.

"Ye'll have to get in line," Barbossa said, raising his mug at Averill and then draining it.

--

Thomas Harlow was relieved when he saw the boat returning to the _Wicked Wench_ with Barbossa and Turk aboard, but that feeling of relief was short-lived. He could tell by the expressions they wore that something important was about to happen.

"Had a good meeting with the other pirates then, did you?" he asked, falling into step with his two shipmates as they headed for the quarterdeck.

Hector nodded. "Aye, I suppose ye could put it that way."

Harlow frowned heavily. "Oh no."

"What do yeh mean, 'oh no'?" Turk asked him.

"Barbossa's got that look he gets whenever we're about to do something really dangerous," Harlow complained, right on their heels as they climbed the stairs to the helm.

"Harlow, yeh fret about things much too much," Turk chided him playfully. "Yer gonna worry yerself into an early grave."

"I'm a _pirate_," Harlow replied, non-too-enthusiastically, "it's a given that I'll earn myself an early grave."

"Then stop worryin' about it!" Turk replied cheerfully back over his shoulder.

"Turk's right, Harlow, and ye needn't worry about this bein' dangerous with all the Company vessels out lookin' fer us elsewhere at the moment," Barbossa added, before giving the orders to weigh anchor and make way. "Shape us a course due west; we'll put in at the secluded cove with the two trees on the point of land."

Harlow's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I don't need to worry about _what_ being dangerous?"

"The kidnappin'," Barbossa replied absently, already calling orders across the ship.

Harlow's expression dropped, even as he saw the grin cross Turk's face, and he sighed in resignation. "I can't believe I'm even going to ask this, but...well...alright, here it goes – exactly who is it that we're going to kidnap?"

"Morgan's wife," Turk announced gleefully, savoring the pained look that crossed Thomas' face and the groan he issued.

"_W-what_?" Harlow stammered.

"You heard me," Turk replied.

"That's insane! Why would we want to kidnap Morgan's wife?" Harlow asked, looking askance from Turk to Barbossa with an expression that said he truly hoped that Turk was just pulling his leg to get a reaction out of him.

"Because Morgan asked us to," Barbossa replied, before barking more orders across the deck.

"Oh, well, that makes it perfectly reasonable then," Harlow replied facetiously.

"We thought you'd see it our way," Turk said with a laugh.

--

Barbossa surveyed the tiny house not far from the fish market and the turtle crawls from the deep shadows of a nearby building. Little more than a glorified hut that stood in a much less affluent area than the one he would ultimate end up that night, it nonetheless emitted a soft light through the small window, and the aroma of something marvelous wafted out into the night air.

Glancing both ways down the cross street and finding no one about, he quickly darted across the narrow road and threw his back up against the wall of the hut, leaning to his left slightly to peer briefly in the window at the back of lone figure seated and working at the small, rough table in the single room. Satisfied that no one else was present, he reached for the latch on the door, very carefully lifting it and easing the door open a few inches. A quick peek through the opening confirmed that the occupant was still facing the other way, and as quietly as he could, Barbossa pulled the door open just enough so that he could slip through and into the room.

After a long moment during which he managed to slowly and silently close the door, Hector leaned his shoulder casually against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, watching the man before him patiently sharpening the blade of a familiar pearl-handled dagger, while the marvelous smell he'd detected outside filled the room. Unable to resist the opportunity to startle the hut's occupant, Barbossa finally spoke.

"That be a nice blade," he said, already laughing as Cezar launched himself out of his chair in alarm and surprise.

"Merda!" Cezar shouted as he jumped to his feet and spun about, brandishing the dagger he'd been diligently sharpening. His eyes went wide when he saw who it was that was laughing at his shock, and he issued a torrent of irate Portuguese punctuated with a generous number of curses.

"'Tis nice to see you as well, Cezar," Barbossa replied, still laughing.

Cezar sank back against the table, finally letting go of his anger. "Ah, Mãe de Deus, but I need three eyes to keep watch out for you, Barbossa. You nearly scared me to death," he admonished his friend softly. "What is it you are doing here?"

Hector sat at the table, in the chair Cezar indicated. "Vistin' you," he replied.

"Yes, and that is a very dangerous thing for you to do, with the size of the reward the Company has on your head, my friend," Cezar said. "Not that it isn't good to see you, Hector, but..."

Cezar broke off and let his gaze travel over Hector, taking in his appearance from head to toe. The young man stood before him dressed in a fine coat and boots, his long auburn hair tied at the nape of his neck; a week's worth of beard grew upon his chin, and he was adorned with his customary medallion and sword, as well as a second one that hung at his back and a fine Spanish pistol was tucked through his belt.

Cezar sighed heavily. "You look every bit a pirate, _Patife_."

"'Twould be fer good reason," Hector replied with a cocky grin crossing his lips. It faded quickly when he saw the look of disapproval that Cezar couldn't complete hide. "What is that yer makin'?" he asked, quickly changing the subject.

"_Chanfana_," Cezar replied, already getting to his feet. "Have you eaten?"

"Aye, but I'd not be opposed to samplin' some of yer stew," Hector replied. "The last decent food I've had was probably from Morgan's wife."

Cezar quickly dished out a bowl of the simple stew and set it before Hector with a large chunk of bread and then poured them both some wine. "So, what is it that really brings you to Port Royal this night? You are not here just to visit an old friend."

"Aye, that be true," Hector replied between bites of the stew he was wolfing down, "but I couldn't pass the opportunity. I don't know when I might see yeh again."

Cezar knew Hector well enough to know that what he was really saying was that he didn't know _if_ they would see each other again. "Something has happened then?" he asked, taking the empty bowl away and refilling it before setting it in front of the younger man.

"Aye, it's about to –although 'twill only be an issue if we get caught," Hector replied, focusing more on his food than on Cezar's scrutinizing gaze.

"We?" Cezar asked pointedly.

"Me, Turk and Harlow," Hector replied.

"Ah, triple trouble," Cezar said affectionately, his expression softening for just a moment, but becoming more serious almost instantly. "And just what is it the three of you _pirates_ are doing?"

Hector didn't miss the way Cezar said the word 'pirates' with obvious disapproval, and he became somewhat defensive. "Ye needn't tell me that you disapprove of me, Cezar, ye've always made that plain enough."

Cezar sighed heavily again, reluctant to renew the age-old debate between them. "It is not you I disapprove of Hector. It is some of your choices. I'll leave it at that –it _is _good to see you, Barbossa."

Hector's defensive demeanor relaxed a little, and he returned to telling Cezar what had been asked of him. Cezar listened very carefully to all that Hector had to say, doing his best to keep his expression neutral, but it was difficult not to look concerned for the young rogue who sat across from him.

"So, once again Morgan places you in a dangerous position," Cezar replied, clearly unhappy with the situation.

Hector's gaze went stony, and Cezar threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender, indicating that he wouldn't attack Morgan's motives further.

"The thing is," Hector continued, letting his expression soften again, "that Morgan would prefer that the abduction be made public, but we can't risk settin' off the alarm too early. 'Twould put us all in danger, includin' Mary, if we were to be found out too soon."

Cezar seemed to be thinking things over for several very long minutes, and then he heaved the largest sigh of the evening. "I cannot believe I am even going to say this, Barbossa, but if it means less risk for you..."

Hector quirked an eyebrow up, curious about what Cezar was going to propose, and he watched as the older man seemed to resolve himself to some course of action.

"You get her out safely, and I will see to it that the alarm is raised at the last minute, giving you time to get away, but making sure the right people know what you've done," Cezar explained.

"I'd not ask ye to do such a thing," Hector replied in earnest.

"_Sim_, I know," Cezar responded with a wry smile, "but you knew I would offer."

Hector merely shrugged in response.

"Just as you knew that me being the one to rat on you would keep me out of suspicion of aiding you here in Port Royal in any way."

"Aye, ye'd already be on Beckett's blacklist, consortin' with known pirates the way ye have in the past," Hector replied in all seriousness. "This'll clean yer slate and make life easier fer you here in Port Royal."

"What would make my life easier, Hector, would be you giving up the life you have chosen, but," he said, holding up a hand to once again forestall any defensive comment from the younger man across the table, "I will at least sleep better if I have been able to ensure that you accomplish what you've set out to do safely."

"Thankee, Cezar," Barbossa replied after a long moment, meeting the older man's gaze steadily.

"Well," Cezar said, pouring them both some more wine, "we shall need to plan this abduction of yours, yes?"

Hector grinned. "Aye, that we do."

--

A crescent moon shone down on the dark waters of Port Royal harbor, illuminating the rigging of the six pirate ships that lay becalmed at various intervals, quietly menacing the town. Likewise the moonlight fell across the decks of the defending _Goshawk_ and the _Oxford_, both abuzz with activity despite the late hour.

In contrast, the decks of the pirate vessels were all quiet; a handful of lookouts monitored the situation in the harbor while the rest of the crew slept or drank below decks. On board the _Centaur_, the two lookouts were joined by the grim figure of Hawkeye Hartwell, who leaned on the rail and surveyed the scene in the harbor.

So far, everything was going as Morgan had planned: the ships of the Brethren, including his own, were in place; the _Oxford_ was in position to supposedly defend the town with the _Goshawk_ against the threatening pirates, but was prepared at a moment's notice upon a signal from Morgan, should things go badly, to turn the tables and blast the bloody hell out of the unsuspecting Navy vessel; and Mary Morgan was about to be abducted by pirates as a way to further influence the governor and the East India Trading Company in addition to her famous husband being held hostage.

Everything had fallen into place, except one thing, and that one thing irritated him to no end: Morgan had entrusted Barbossa with Mary's safety instead of him, demonstrating that he favored Barbossa over himself, or that he likely trusted the younger pirate more despite the years Hartwell had sailed with Morgan. Either way it gnawed at him, fanning the flames of hatred he already had for Hector Barbossa.

Hartwell watched as the _Wicked Wench_ weighed anchor, obviously setting things for the kidnapping in motion. So be it. Barbossa would escort Morgan's wife to safety under the guise of an abduction, and the governor and Charles Beckett would find no alternative to negotiating with Averill and the Brethren, lest they risk the deaths of both popular and beloved Morgans. Hartwell would play his part and go along with things as they stood, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

Hartwell leaned off the rail once the _Wicked Wench_ had disappeared around the western point of the cove, and headed for his cabin, content to bide his time and play his part as a pirate.

For now.


End file.
